


Boon

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Also He Eats Humans, Alternate Universe - Lovecraft Fusion, Eldritch Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Human Sacrifice, Interspecies Relationship(s), Literally Everybody Knows, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-08-14 03:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: "My horse is hitched to a post closer to Asperger's and autistics than narcissists and sociopaths, but that's not what you want to know.  You want to know how I faked my genetic profile."Jack straightens.  "The Bureau doesn't discriminate along species lines--""Unless, of course, you lie on your application or tamper with the genetic screening your employment is conditional upon," Will counters, upper lip curling in disdain.  He's not devout, content to be ignored by Others and gods alike, and though he acknowledges the usefulness of the Compact, he considers the monthly tithe too high a price for the boons they receive in return.  He's still going to argue this point with anyone who'll listen, because as little as he likes Others, he appreciates hypocrisy even less.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Moving all of my WIPs from tumblr, because inevitably I fall asleep before I can finish the last three lines of a post, and then I've got a fight on my hands. XD (I'll still be posting things there, but yeah, it's fic dump time.) Also since I can't currently play any of the games I want to be playing, expect a revolving update of anywhere between five to seven fics, because my brain _can not_ be left to its own devices. Like, ever. For any reason. So...shorter chapters than my usual, but a lot more of them, probably. Sorry in advance! XD

"Everyone has thought about killing someone," Will tells his class, "one way or another. Be it your own hand or the hands of the gods."

As if they think he can read their guilt, for once his students find somewhere else to look: at the projector screen at his back where Mrs. Marlow lies still and staring in death, as in the final moments of her life; at their notes; at the podium where Will rests his elbow. He's been trying to ground himself, resist his restless need to pace. Having so many eyes follow his every move makes him feel like prey, even though he's reasonably certain most of his class is human. There's only one he's not certain of--can't be certain of unless he meets her eyes--but he makes a point of treating all his students the same. The gods know they need more Others interested in investigating corpses, not just making them.

"Now, think about killing Mrs. Marlow. Why did she deserve this? Tell me your design," he instructs, dropping the projector's remote onto the podium. "Tell me who you are."

His class is well-trained. The dropping of the clicker invokes a near-Pavlovian response, his students gathering books and papers without needing a formal dismissal. No one tries to hang back and ask him questions, which just makes the dark figure easing along the wall in the corner of his eye that much more noticeable. Human-shaped, though that doesn't mean a thing. Others are good at camouflage. Risking a fast glance, he tightens his jaw and starts shoving his belongings into his bag, slipping his unneeded glasses on as an extra layer of defense. His visitor is definitely human and definitely unwelcome.

"Mr. Graham," Jack Crawford greets him, shoving his hands in his pockets. In someone else, it might have passed for respect of Will's personal space, but paired with Jack's proprietary smile, the gesture oozes self-satisfaction. "Special Agent Jack Crawford," he says, closing the gap between them to offer a handshake. "I head the Behavioral Sciences Unit."

"We've met," Will reminds him, shaking the offered hand reluctantly. Crawford is a big man, a loud man in Will's experience, but his grip is purely professional.

"Yes. We had a disagreement when we opened up the museum."

"I disagreed with what you named it," Will counters. He has no problem with the museum itself, just the theater surrounding it.

Jack's shoulders stiffen as he braces himself for another round. "The Evil Minds Research Museum."

"It's a little hammy, Jack," Will grumbles for what feels like the fiftieth time. "'Evil' creates expectations. Expectations breed complacency. People visit hoping to see the acts of rogue Others put on display; when they see human crimes, they dismiss them."

"Everybody wants to see the show," Jack sighs. Will's always gotten the impression that Jack halfway agrees with him, just isn't repentant in the slightest. The name brings in visitors; happy visitors are good for the Bureau's PR. What Others think of the name is hard to say.

Jack glances up at the screen behind Will, and though he curses himself for giving the man one more reason to stay and talk, it's too late to wish he'd shut the projector down. Jack picks up the remote without asking and clicks to the next slide. "I see you've hitched your host to a teaching post," Jack says, making it all too clear he considers it a waste of a good horse. "I also understand you find it difficult to be social."

He leans in and down as he says it, eyes boring so fiercely into Will it sends cold fingers of panic crawling up his spine. Just looking down at his hands is no longer enough; he has to turn his face away, eyes skittering around the room, searching for exits.

"Well, I'm just talking at them," he says, sensing a trap. "I'm not listening to them. It's...it's not social."

"I see." Jack's smiling again, too knowing. "May I?"

Will stares in disbelief as Jack reaches for his face without waiting for permission, not that Will would have given it. Since when does 'does not play well with others' translate to 'yes, please violate my personal bubble?' He wants to step back but forces himself to hold his ground as Jack gently pushes his glasses up to settle properly on the bridge of his nose, returning Jack's stare flatly. Jack wants eye contact? Fine.

Will braces himself, lets the focus of his stare go lax and--

Jack drops his eyes immediately, shoulders stiffening as he tries to pretend he isn't affected, but Will's seen the instinctive shudder too many times not to recognize it now. Humans can always tell when he's reading them, and that's fine by him, because he can't read a living person without meeting their eyes--something he tries hard not to do. It's not like reading the living is a choice. Crime scenes are much more forgiving.

"Where do you fall on the spectrum?" Jack asks without skipping a beat, though he keeps his eyes down until Will looks pointedly away. It's an invasive question, but Will snorts.

"My horse is hitched to a post closer to Asperger's and autistics than narcissists and sociopaths, but that's not what you want to know. You want to know how I faked my genetic profile."

Jack straightens. "The Bureau doesn't discriminate along species lines--"

"Unless, of course, you lie on your application or tamper with the genetic screening your employment is conditional upon," Will counters, upper lip curling in disdain. He's not devout, content to be ignored by Others and gods alike, and though he acknowledges the usefulness of the Compact, he considers the monthly tithe too high a price for the boons they receive in return. He's still going to argue this point with anyone who'll listen, because as little as he likes Others, he appreciates hypocrisy even less.

"Anyway," he rushes on before Jack can pick up the argument, "the answer is no. I didn't fake anything. I'm one hundred percent human."

"But this talent you have--"

"I don't know," Will says forcefully, tossing his satchel onto the podium to shove the rest of his things inside. He's gone over this so many times, and it never gets more enjoyable. "I don't know, Jack. Maybe my mother received a boon and it turned out to be hereditary. Dad never talked about her, and I don't remember her. Whatever it is I do, it doesn't register on any test, counter or scope. For all anyone knows, it's nothing but an active imagination. Now if you'll excuse me--"

Jack reaches out before Will can escape and flattens his hand on Will's satchel. "Can I borrow your imagination?"

Will takes in a deep breath and lets it out slow. It's not like he doesn't know Jack's game: get him off-balance, keep him there, and then see how much he'll concede just to be left alone. Usually people aren't so heavy-handed about it, and Jack's the head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit. He must know he's pushing too hard, so there must be a reason for it.

"Why?" Will asks bluntly, forcing himself to look Jack full in the face again.

This time Jack doesn't shy away. "Walk with me," he suggests instead of immediately answering, but Will sees flashes of it all the same: frustration, worry, empty hands closing on missing evidence. He hasn't asked a boon, probably because if any of the Others currently working for the Bureau could grant it, they'd have done it already, and the thought of entering a plea for justice into the general slush pile of human hopes and dreams to be picked over by the bored and powerful offends his pride. Awareness of the cost is in there too, but Jack's a pragmatist. Others have to eat. Better they give something back than just take indiscriminately. It's not like there's any getting rid of them.

Against his better judgment, Will nods.

Jack's silent until they leave the building, the halls full of too many curious ears to be discussing an open case. Once they're out in the open, Jack's a lot more forthcoming.

"I don't know if you follow the news--"

"It's sort of in my job description." It's really not; he knows other teachers who avoid it, claiming they see enough ugliness in the classroom without adding to it.

"Then you've probably heard some of this already. So far we've got eight girls abducted from eight different Minnesota campuses, all in the last eight months."

Will frowns. "You're sure it's not a tithe?"

"If it was, why hide it? Easier to just register the claim, state the boon, and be done with it."

"Someone doubling up? Taking more than the Compact allows?" His first thought is the Chesapeake Ripper, but the Ripper kills have continued like clockwork: three a month, no more and no less. Tidy and clean, with no more mystery than a butcher's shop. Something about the numbers nags at him. "I thought there were seven."

"There were," Jack says grimly as they start up the stairs to the building that houses his office.

"When did you tag the eighth?" Will asks, stomach sinking even before he hears the answer.

"About three minutes before I walked into your lecture hall."

Jack's sudden desperation, seeking out Will, makes a gruesome kind of sense. Seven might've been a ritual, a plan--something with a finite number and an end. Eight is pathological. Certain now that the killer won't stop--

But do they know it's a killer?

"You're calling them abductions because you don't have any bodies?"

"No bodies, no parts of bodies, nothing that comes out of bodies," Jack grumbles, surprising Will. Definitely not the Ripper, then. The expertly-butchered carcasses he leaves behind makes his victims' fates abundantly clear. "Nothing."

"Then those girls weren't taken from where you think they were taken."

"Then where were they taken from?"

"I don't know." He reads people, scenes; he's not clairvoyant. "Someplace else."

Jack doesn't like that, frowning as he chews over this new angle, disordering whatever pieces of the puzzle he thought he'd managed to connect before.

"So tell me about the girls," Will suggests as they near Jack's office. "Any commonalities?"

"Easier if I show you," Jack says gruffly. "All of them were abducted on a Friday so they wouldn't have to be reported missing until Monday. However he's covering his tracks, he needs a weekend to do it."

Will nods slowly as Jack gestures for him to precede the man into his office. It's definitely sounding more and more like a human killer with human limitations.

There's a big map of Minnesota pinned up on Jack's wall, each kill site marked with a post-it and a bit of white string that leads to glossy, numbered photographs. There's only seven up on the board, but Jack hands him a photo with a tired sigh.

"Number eight?"

"Elise Nichols. St. Cloud State on the Mississippi. Disappeared on Friday. Was supposed to house sit for her parents over the weekend, feed the cat. She never made it home."

He sees why Jack wanted to show him. The girls' similarities leap out at him: young, dark-haired, pretty in a girl next door way, neither the life of the party nor the wallflower. Taking his glasses off, Will folds them up and slips them into his pocket. They don't prevent him from _seeing_\--only not looking will do that--but it's the principle of the thing.

"Yeah, one through seven are dead, don't you think?" Will asks, glancing up at the board and back to the photograph in his hand. "He's not keeping them around. He got himself a new one."

Jack takes a fortifying breath. "So we focus on Elise Nichols."

"They're all very Mall of America," Will says as he adds Elise's photo to the board. "That's a lot of wind-chafed skin."

"Same hair color, same eye color," Jack agrees. "Roughly the same age. Same height, same weight. So, what is it about all these girls?"

Will shakes his head. "It's not about all of these girls. It's just about one of them. He's like Willy Wonka. Every girl he takes is a candy bar, and hidden in amongst all those candy bars is the one true intended victim, which, if we follow through on our metaphor, is your golden ticket."

It's not the best comparison he could have made. These girls may be sweet, but if the killer is human, it's unlikely they've become food. Small mercies, he supposes.

Jack frowns. "So is he warming up for his golden ticket or just...reliving whatever it is he did to her?"

"No, the golden ticket wouldn't be the first taken, and she wouldn't be the last. He would hide how special she was. I mean, I would," Will says with a helpless shrug. "Wouldn't you?"

He's halfway to the door before Jack says, "I want you to get closer to this." He sounds far too impressed for Will's liking; maybe he should've sounded more uncertain.

"No. You have Heimlich at Harvard and Bloom at Georgetown," he insists, sweeping a hand out to wave Jack's arguments aside. "They do the same thing I do."

"That's not exactly true, is it? You have a very specific way of thinking about things."

Will laughs in disbelief. "Has there been a lot of discussion about the specific way I think?" There's been a lot of talk about the way he _sees_, but somehow his mind rarely comes into it, like he's nothing but a vehicle for his so-called gift.

Jack purses his lips briefly, seeing he's hit a nerve. "You make jumps you can't explain, Will--"

"No, no--the _evidence_ explains."

"Then help me find some evidence."

It's not the grudging plea in Jack's voice that makes him hesitate. He knows the right thing to do, and he's not unaffected by the bright, hopeful eyes staring back at him from glossy eight-by-tens. He wants to help, even though instinct's telling him it's a bad idea to let Jack Crawford think he's won, even a single battle.

"That may require me to be sociable," he mutters.

It's going to require him to _look_, and that means staring into a deep, dark well with nothing but monsters swimming at the bottom.


	2. Chapter 2

When Will asks the Nichols about their cat, he's pretty sure Jack's going to take him aside and deliver up a lecture on sensitivity. That tells him pretty conclusively that Jack's never been a pet owner. If his dogs had gone two days without food, the way they met him at the door would have stood out, his first sign that something had gone very wrong with their sitter.

When he walks into Elise's room and sees her lying on the bed, for a split second he thinks his gift has gotten ahead of itself. He expects her, yes, but only after he's had time to center his thoughts, brace himself for what inevitably follows when he relaxes his control. It's not until her father breathes, "_Elise_," eyes shining with relief, that Will realizes he's not the only one seeing this.

He catches Mr. Nichols before he can take a second step toward the bed. Whatever this is, it's no happy ending.

One hour stretches into two as the parents are placated, the local police called back to cordon off the area. An ambulance arrives, more a formality than anything else, though Will realizes belatedly that Mr. Nichols has gone into shock. He's not great with the living, and Jack is preoccupied, briefing his forensics team when they appear on the scene.

When he's allowed back into the bedroom at last, Elise's eyes are still closed. He probably has the EMT's to thank, and he will be thanking them, even though whoever's in charge of fingerprints will probably squawk. The living are more intrusive, but meeting the eyes of the dead can be unpleasant to say the least.

He circles the bed, tries to get a feel for the room, but his eyes won't leave the body. Quiet and still, she pulls at him, peace_ful in her sleep; he's sorry to have to wake her. The illusion will be shattered the moment she opens her eyes, but right now she's perfect. Which makes this hard, but if he doesn't--no. He has to. No choice. It's her or--no, it has to be her. It has to. So he can...he can at least make this quick. One step, two, and he_\--

"You're Will Graham."

He comes back to himself with a jolt, his thoughts a jumbled mess. For a moment he's still the killer, and his first impulse is to take care of this nuisance before she can interrupt. She's not--

"--supposed to be in here," he hears himself say, and it throws him off again. Is that him or the killer talking? And who--why is there--wasn't Jack supposed to keep everyone out?

"You wrote the standard monograph on time of death by insect activity."

No, he--did he? Oh. Yes. He did. This stranger seems far more certain of it--sounds impressed, even. She's smiling, like she's happy to meet him, but that's not going to last. Already the admiring smile is fading as he refuses to meet her eyes, all but shivering where he stands as he tries to sort out who he is.

Jack comes in to call the woman to heel, but the damage has already been done. Will's lost, too distracted to protest as the rest of Jack's team files in after him, congregating around the bed, where he does (not) want them. The girl is (his, damn it, not his) and they're just going to (ruin everything) get it all wrong. This isn't what (_he_) wanted.

(But then, he didn't want to get stuck halfway in the mind of a killer, either, only thanks to one untimely interruption, that's exactly where he--)

"I found antler velvet in two of the wounds," the woman announces. "Like she was gored."

"Well, that's going to make this easy," a dark-haired man says with a snort. "We'll just check the tithe registry for Others with a nice rack."

An older man with thinning hair grimaces, unconvinced. "One of the Thousand would be the obvious culprit, but it'd be a bit like signing your name, wouldn't it?"

"No." All eyes turn to him. "No, our killer is human."

"Uh...antler velvet?" the first man reminds, as if Will just needs his memory jogged. Will doesn't miss the skeptical look, knows exactly what it means. Someone's heard some wild rumor about him and thinks he's speaking from a sense of solidarity, not wanting to throw one of his own under the bus.

"Antler velvet is rich in nutrients," Will points out, the killer's mind slipping away from his reluctantly. "It actually promotes healing. He may have put it in there on purpose."

Jack frowns. "You think he was trying to heal her?"

Will takes a deep breath, fortifying his defenses against anything else that might try to creep in. "He wanted to undo as much as he could. Given that he'd already killed her," he allows.

"Not at the top of his congregation's hierarchy, then," the older of the two men says, "or else his patron isn't big on do-overs."

"He put her back where he found her," Jack muses aloud, ignoring the other's attempt at levity in favor of feeling his way towards the conclusions Will's already reached.

Will shakes his head. "Whatever he did to the others, he couldn't do it to her."

"Is this his golden ticket?" Jack asks.

It's a logical conclusion to reach, but.... "No. This is an apology."

And now that he has their attention--

"Does anyone have any aspirin?"

Gods, his head is killing him.

***

He's introduced to the team afterwards: Katz, for whom the shine has definitely worn off; Zeller the skeptic and Price with his gallows humor. He returns their greetings civilly enough, but after standing over the corpse of a girl and seeing his own hands around her throat, any real friendliness is beyond him. He just wants to get home, bury himself in dogs, and pretend this night never happened.

It seems like Fate when a new dog is thrown into his path a few miles from his house. It has a collar, but it's trailing a severed rope, and who leaves a dog tied up like that? Someone who doesn't deserve a dog, that's who.

Will takes him home, cleans him up, and for a little while feels like maybe he's a positive force in this world.

All that's gone when he returns to work and finds his classes have vanished out from under him, his office desk piled high with copies of police reports and photographs of the missing eight. He feels like the miller's hapless daughter, only the gold Jack's expecting him to spin from this dross is a killer's name.

He reads until his eyes burn, but nothing's connecting. He knows the girls aren't being abducted from their campuses, but he can't figure out how the killer's finding them at all. Did he meet them at the school? And why do they trust him enough to let him get close in the first place? Is he a guest lecturer? A substitute teacher? Someone in a position of authority, but anyone who'd worked at all eight campuses would've tripped an alarm by now. Maybe he's not thinking in broad enough terms.

When climbing the walls starts to sound preferable to turning another page, he forces himself to get up and take a walk. In hindsight that may have been a mistake. Jack comes looking for him and seems to take Will's absence from his desk, _any_ break from obediently poring over case notes, as a personal affront.

"What are you doing in here?" Jack demands as he strides into the restroom, and for a moment Will just can't wrap his brain around the question. It doesn't help that he'd actually come to dunk his head in the sink, which he only managed by pointedly not thinking about the fact that he's in a public restroom in the first place. He _really_ hopes the FBI janitors are as good as they ought to be, but the momentary relief from the pounding in his head is probably worth it.

"I enjoy the smell of urinal cake," he replies flippantly, hoping the oblique reminder--_urinal_, Jack?--might clue Jack in to his off behavior.

"Me too," Jack replies without an ounce of humor. "We need to talk."

To say Will is startled when Jack immediately turns and bellows another man out of the room is an understatement. It's a fear tactic, pure and simple--a display of temper Will can't quite complain about since it wasn't directed at him--and it takes him back to high school in a way he thought he'd escaped. When Jack turns back to him, he looks down and away. The last thing he needs is to turn this into a full-blown confrontation.

"You respect my judgment, Will? Hm?"

At the moment? No. Not at all. Not even a little bit. He nods anyway, forces out a, "Yes."

"Good. Because we will stand a better chance of catching this guy with you in the saddle."

Will doesn't appreciate being cornered at the best of times, but being cornered in a men's room and told he _isn't doing his job?_

"Yeah, I'm in the saddle," Will insists. "Just...confused which direction I'm pointing." Jack doesn't so much roll his eyes as look to an invisible audience to see if they find it as hard to believe what they're hearing as he does--and yet Will doesn't hear him offering up any theories of his own. "I don't know this kind of psychopath," he tries to explain. "I've never read about him. I don't even know if he's a psychopath. He's not insensitive; he's not shallow." There's more to their killer than just _me, me, me_. His entire pathology is centered around _we_.

"You know something about him," Jack insists. "Otherwise you wouldn't have said 'This is an apology.' What is he apologizing for?"

Unable to remain in place, Will takes two steps away and turns, beginning to pace. "He couldn't honor her. He feels bad," he sums up in case Jack needs a translation, breaking it down to basics.

"Well, feeling bad defeats the purpose of being a psychopath, doesn't it?"

"Yes!" Will pounces, hammering home the source of his own frustration in the hopes that Jack will finally get it. "It does!"

"Then what kind of crazy is he?" Jack shouts, like he can drive the answers out of Will by force of volume alone.

He meets Jack's eyes for a heartbeat and it's like the ground opens up beneath him. In that instant he's not staring at a man but a gaping, empty hole dug by frustration and fury. Jack is a hunt with no end, a dog left to run after a quarry that's no longer there, and it's cracked something inside him he has no interest in fixing.

The moment Jack realizes he's being read, he backs off, but it takes longer than that for Will to dismiss the vision of Jack as a hungry, man-shaped void. Because that's the thing about having a hole inside you: most people will go to any lengths to fill them up.

He knows right then that he has a choice and that the smart one would be to run. Leave Jack to his obsessions and his heavy-handed attempts to bully the world into giving him whatever it is he's missing. The only thing that stops him is a face he can't quite see, though he's seen her reflection eight times in eight imperfect mirrors.

Somewhere out there is a girl he _can_ save, and he owes it to her to try.

***

Jack knows he can be a little intense at times. He'd tone it back, but it gets results, and results are what matter in the Bureau. Most of the time he doesn't let it bother him.

Most of the time he doesn't have some gifted human staring at him like he's looked into Jack's soul and found it too Other for comfort.

It's the stress, probably. Will's been on the verge of cracking from the minute he stepped into the Nichols' home. And maybe Jack had gone a bit too hard trying to shake him out of his dithering, because it's clear to Jack that if Will would just stop second-guessing himself, they might actually get somewhere. Still. He doesn't actually want to cause a breakdown, and he knows his own limits. He's no one's go-to for delicate handling, and he's not ashamed to look for help.

Alana Bloom is very good at what she does. She may not make the intuitive leaps Jack needs from his people, but she's very good at making human connections. People trust her; they _want_ to talk to her. She's the only psychiatrist to have walked out of an interview with Abel Gideon with more answers than questions--_with_ her patience intact. He's sure she could provide a grounding influence for Graham if she'd just agree to try.

"You've been observing him while you've been guest-lecturing here at the academy, yes?"

She'd given him a look when he'd appeared in her lecture hall, but it's a nice day. He can walk a colleague to her car, stretch his legs and maybe shoot the breeze, can't he?

"I've never been in a room alone with Will," Alana replies. It's such an odd observation, there has to be more behind it.

"Why not?"

"Because I want to be his friend. And I am."

"It seems a shame not to take advantage. Academically speaking," he's quick to add, just to see if she'll be tempted, though he wonders now what he's tempting her with. Access, but to what? A psychological curiosity or--

"You already asked me to do a study on him, Jack," she reminds him, a hint of weariness creeping into her tone. He's only asked the once; who else has been leaning on her to do the same? "I said no. Anything scholarly on Will Graham would have to be published posthumously," she adds, but he's not interested in her bibliography. What she publishes and when is of no concern to him.

"So you've never been alone with him because you have a professional curiosity about him." He doesn't want to call bullshit on a lady, but something in that excuse definitely smells.

She gives him an arch look but keeps smiling, ignoring his insinuations as she takes a deep breath. "Normally I wouldn't even broach this, but what do you think one of Will's strongest drives is?"

That's not the tack he's expecting her to take, and he has to stop and think for a moment, folding his arms as she watches him expectantly. What drives Will Graham? Justice, obviously, or he wouldn't be working in law enforcement...but he doesn't think that's the answer Alana's looking for. Mercy? The drive to protect, a sense of responsibility for those weaker than him? That last must be strong; it's likely what's kept him going on this case despite his obvious--

"Fear," Jack realizes aloud, seeing Will's recent actions in a new light. The tremble in his mouth, the occasional sheen in his eyes: that wasn't some sentimental pushover over-empathizing with the victims; that was terror, tamped down over and over again so Will can do his job. "Will Graham deals with huge amounts of fear."

Alana nods, still waiting.

"It comes with his imagination," Jack concedes with a frown.

"It's the price of imagination," Alana corrects him, moving in for the kill. He sees now where she's going, that he can argue until he's blue in the face and get nowhere. Alana sees Will's gift as a problem. To Jack it's a necessity.

"Alana, I wouldn't put him out there if I didn't think I could cover him." She doesn't say a word, but her arched brow speaks volumes. "All right, if I didn't think I could cover him eighty percent."

"I wouldn't put him out there," she counters, shoulders lifting as her chin tilts stubbornly up.

"He's out there," Jack says, biting off each word slowly and deliberately. There's no arguing a done deal. "I need him out there. Should he get too close, I need you to make sure he's not out there alone."

He thinks for a moment that she'll cave to the inevitable, but then she shakes her head. "I'm not the right person for this, Jack."

"Because you'd have to be alone with him?" he can't resist sniping.

One corner of her mouth twitches; it's the only sign he gets that he ruffled her at all. "Because we _are_ friends. I'd go too easy on him, or else I'd overcompensate. Professional boundaries don't exist just to avoid lawsuits."

He lets that dig flow off him with a brusque headshake. "Then give me someone he will listen to, because I'm pretty sure that's a short list."

She opens her mouth to refuse, he can tell by the glint in her eye, but something stops her. "Actually there might be someone. I don't know if he'd be interested, but I'd trust him to approach Will as a person, not a paper."

"And who is this miracle man?"

Alana snorts, eyes dancing. "Hannibal Lecter," she replies before he can ask what's so funny. "He has a practice in Baltimore now, but he was my mentor at Johns Hopkins."

Jack frowns. "Hannibal Lecter. The _Other_ Hannibal Lecter?" It's impossible to keep up with every Other out there, even the ones in his immediate jurisdiction, but a few stand out. The Chesapeake Ripper, for one--despite current popular opinion, Jack's sure it's an Other, though humans involved in the black market meat trade aren't unheard of.

Dr. Lecter's on the opposite side of that scale. Where the Ripper's kills are clean, impersonal, bland as a butcher shop window, Dr. Lecter elevates his monthly tithes to works of art. Macabre art to be sure, but even Jack can almost appreciate it if he lets himself forget the focal pieces were once human. The man has a cult following, for gods' sake, as much for his habit of choosing genuinely unpleasant people as for the designs he creates. High society loves him. Edgy kids with warped ideas of romance _offer_ themselves as tithes in the hopes of being immortalized. As far as Jack knows, Lecter never takes them up on it. Lecter is one of the Thousand, was spawned to hunt.

"No," Alana says with an innocent smile, "it's definitely the one you're thinking of."

Jack rolls his eyes. Like he hasn't heard that joke a thousand times. "I don't intend to ask a boon," he warns.

"And he probably wouldn't grant you one if you did," Alana fires back. "Hannibal does things on his own terms, and if there's anything he despises more than the rude, it's being treated like a wish-dispensing genie."

"So why even approach him? Other than an excuse to make a kill, what do we have that he'd even want?" Lecter's not like the new-spawned: alone, like as not newly-orphaned if their carrier was human. He's established, respected, with no need for money or fame.

Alana hunches a shoulder, tipping her head to the side. "A challenge? He gets bored, but he likes interesting situations and people. I think Will would give him both."

"He'd be a challenge, all right," Jack agrees, sighing. "All right, then. When you--"

"Oh, no," Alana interrupts, holding up a hand. "I told you, Jack--I wouldn't put him out there, however good the safety net. If you want this, it's all on you."

Great. She'll show him the brass ring, but grabbing it is up to him.

Luckily he's always had pretty good aim.

***

Will has spent nearly his entire life feeling like a third wheel. It's a slightly novel experience to feel like an unneeded fourth. It's obvious Jack's team has worked together before; Price and Zeller banter like they're rehearsing to take their show on the road, while Katz and Zeller bicker like siblings. Will's presence at Elise Nichols' autopsy feels like a formality; they're all well aware that Jack wants him there to _look_ more than to listen.

So he looks, past the face that haunted his sleep the night before, to the wounds that hadn't bled nearly as much as his dreams had painted: velvet-lined--they pin their prey--pinned like a butterfly to a board--

"Other injuries were probably, but not conclusively, post-mortem," Zeller announces, his pompous tone breaking into Will's thoughts. "So, _not_ gored."

"She has lots of piercings that look like they were caused by deer antlers," Katz counters, uncowed. "I didn't say the deer was responsible for _putting_ them there."

Zeller lifts both hands, placating in the face of Katz' ire. Some other time Will would find the social dynamics in this room distantly interesting, but his head's too full for that now. "She was mounted on them," he says, not really caring if they believe him or not. "Like hooks. She may have been bled."

There's no 'may' about it, but his certainty tends to bother people. It's a short jump to them wondering how he could know so much, even with his gift, and they're already giving him that look that says his weird party trick isn't appreciated.

"Her liver was removed," Zeller goes on, visibly shaking off Will's strangeness.

"You see that?" Price points at something in the open abdominal cavity that Will can't make out from where he's standing, well away from the autopsy table.

"He took it out and then....yep," Zeller says, pulling the incision wider and sliding his fingers in. Meat shifts with a wet, sucking pull. "He put it back in."

Price frowns. "Huh. Why would he cut it out if he's just gonna sew it back in again?"

The answer comes along with a rush of saliva to Will's mouth. He's going to tell himself it's the precursor to nausea. "There was something wrong with the meat."

They're staring at him again, but Zeller's eyes are almost accusing. "She has liver cancer."

Will nods shakily, his hypothesis confirmed. "He's, um...he's eating them."

"Still think it's not an Other?" Zeller asks with a tight, insincere smile.

"I don't know," Price says thoughtfully, "would that even matter to one of them? I mean, meat is meat, right?"

Katz snorts. "Maybe, but would you rather sit down in the restaurant or dig through the trash out back?"

Price makes a face, but Zeller's on a roll.

"Well, if something is eating them--"

"Some_one_," Price chides him, huffing at Zeller's muttered apology, "and it's not as if Others have cornered the market on that, so to speak. Donner party, anyone?"

"Huh." Katz straightens, shifting back on her heels. "Speaking of markets...."

Zeller looks from her to Price and back again, Will thoroughly ignored. "What, you think someone's muscling in on the Ripper's territory?"

Katz shrugs. "Why not? There must be good money in it. Someone sees the Ripper doing it, maybe makes a lucky contact in the Other community...."

"And he's new at it," Price points out, "so he's probably not as good. Takes the bodies with him instead of butchering them at the kill sites. Less pressure means better cuts of meat."

"Except that doesn't explain why they all look the same," Will reminds them, trying not to snap. Something inside him is snarling at the idea of being thought a common butcher. Can't they see these girls are more than that? "No, there's...he wouldn't share. Not with anyone who wouldn't appreciate the gift they're being given. These girls aren't for sale. They're _special_."

"So special he kills them," Katz mutters, half under her breath, but then she cracks a smile. "Sounds like about half the killers on record. Good point."

The remnant of the killer rattling around in Will's brain doesn't like that either, but Will shoves him down. _You see? There's nothing special about_ you.

That shuts up his unwanted guest, at least for a little while. He'll take his victories where he can get them.

***

Jack's not sure what he's expecting from Lecter's Baltimore office. Gothic architecture, maybe, or hunting trophies: ram's horns in honor of his mother or twisted racks of antlers if they came from his vanquished siblings. He's relieved to find the place more closely resembles a library or a museum, though there's a tiny, disappointed part of him that wouldn't have minded being just a little bit shocked.

Maybe Will has a point about the Evil Minds name after all.

Lecter isn't quite what he was imagining either, though he's studied up on the man in preparation for this interview. He's tall, well-groomed, but even having been warned, Jack's not prepared for the spectacle of a powder-blue suit. A killer from the moment he was spawned, he should not be able to carry off pastels, but he looks...harmless. Approachable. Handsome, even, if you don't know what's hiding underneath. He's wearing his human suit, but surely something should slip through.

There's maybe something a little strange about the eyes, but beyond the muddy red hue and wary curiosity, Jack just can't put a finger on it.

Then Lecter says, "I'm beginning to suspect you're investigating me, Agent Crawford," and Jack feels a sudden shift in the air, the predator beginning to wake.

"No," Jack says with a chuckle he hopes sounds natural, needing to distance himself right now from the small-time, small-minded cops who pull investigations out of thin air to make Others' lives difficult. "No, I don't doubt you'd check out on the system if I were to look, Doctor. You're very visible, after all. No, you were referred to me by Alana Bloom. In the psychology department at Georgetown."

Instantly the coldness he was sensing recedes, Lecter's marble face softening at last with a smile. Jack knows then that he's got him.

He just has no idea precisely what is waiting at the end of his hook, only that it's probably big enough to swallow him and his boat together.

***

The call from Jack comes just as Will's entering the building, before he even has time to set his things down in his office. He has a morning lecture he'd really like some time to prepare for, but Jack's "_I need you in my office. There's someone I want you to meet_," reminds him that his time is not currently his own.

"All right, just let me--"

"_Now, please_."

The 'please'--that's new. Jack must be trying to make a good impression.

Slipping into Jack's office, he finds a stranger studying the pinboard Jack has set up with a map of the various disappearances. He's no one Will recognizes from the job, but he displays none of the overblown concern or horror of a civilian trying to score bonus points with law enforcement by showing just how much they care. Lively curiosity lingers in his faint smile when he turns at Will's entrance, waiting for Jack to introduce them. Mostly Will notices the way the man's perfect posture and confident bearing don't quite match the informality of his understated suit. He hasn't dressed up; he's here in his comfortable Sunday clothes, for all that he makes Will feel like he could have put in a bit more effort himself.

"Will," Jack says, rising from his desk and sweeping a hand toward his guest. "I'd like you to meet Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Lecter, this is Special Agent Will Graham. Dr. Lecter has agreed to assist with the case."

"A pleasure to meet you," Lecter says, holding out a hand. Will has to meet him halfway, shifting his satchel and coat to one hand, but he returns the gesture politely, noting the lack of alpha male posturing in the evenness of Lecter's grip. He's more struck by the man's accent, unable to quite place its origins. Something European, not thick enough to distort his words. "Agent Crawford speaks highly of your skills."

"Ah, thanks," Will says, wishing he could return the compliment. Something about this surprise meeting feels like an ambush. Who is this Lecter, and why is he here? "So are you a doctor of medicine or psychology?"

"Both, as it happens, but I no longer practice the former. I believe my studies of the mind are why I've been invited here today."

Will makes a noncommittal noise as he takes the chair on the right, the one with his usual coffee mug already sitting before it on Jack's desk. Unaffected by Will's lack of conversational skills, Lecter's smile stretches fractionally wider before he turns back to the evidence board.

"Tell me then, how many confessions?"

"Twelve dozen, last time I checked," Jack replies tiredly, fists braced on his hips. "None of them had any details. Until this morning," he adds, returning to his chair with a grimace. "And then they all had details. Some genius in Duluth PD took a photograph of Elise Nichols' body with his cell phone, shared it with his friends, and then Freddie Lounds posted it on tattlecrime.com."

Will's finally shed the last sticky traces of the killer's mind, but he doesn't need a borrowed sense of outrage to be filled with disgust. "Tasteless," he mutters, glaring at nothing.

"Do you have trouble with taste?"

He almost looks Lecter full in the face out of sheer surprise. What kind of question is that? Is it a dig at the way he's dressed? The lack of social graces?

"My thoughts are often not tasty," he replies, curbing the urge to go toe to toe with the man. He may not have come from money the way Lecter clearly did, but he's long past the days when he'd let anyone shame him over that.

"Nor mine," Lecter replies with surprisingly little hesitation, preoccupied with leaning in for a better look at the girls' photographs. "No effective barriers."

Another odd admission; Will can't quite work out what he means. "Well, I build forts," he offers, retrieving the coffee someone left for him--black, still hot--to hide behind the mug.

"Associations come quickly."

"So do forts."

Lecter sinks into the chair on Will's left, retrieves his own coffee, and stops, turning to Will as if struck by some realization. "Not fond of eye contact, are you?"

Will takes a deep breath. Here it is again: someone who wants to test the rumors, to call him out on a lie or show off their mental defenses, or who just wants to see the magic happen. No one ever seems to consider that he doesn't _want_ to see what's inside them. He's like a carnival funhouse: a cheap scare they can walk away from, while he's left dealing with the trash they leave behind.

"Eyes are distracting," he says, anger starting to boil to the surface. "You see too much, you don't see enough. And it's hard to focus when you're thinking--"

He's already relaxing his guard a fraction as he turns, eyes lifting to meet Lecter's, and then--

_Darkness. Not impenetrable. Not metaphorical. He hears insects, the rustle of leaves, the faint trickle of water somewhere close. The trees stand tall all around, their trunks just far enough apart to let in the light of the moon. Straining his eyes, he turns a slow circle, convinced he's not alone, but he sees no one, just him and the trees and_\--

_A hand falls on his shoulder from behind, stilling his circling with gentle pressure, though it could break his bones with no effort at all. And that's unsettling, because it shouldn't be _his_ bones, only he hasn't broken though anything. He hasn't become the Other in this place; he's only been invited in_.

Will blinks, then blinks again as the lights of Jack's office suddenly register on his brain. Gods. Dr. Lecter isn't human. He's not sure how he missed it before.

Untroubled by the invasion, Lecter murmurs, "Fascinating."

"What?" Will croaks, still trying to regain his bearings.

"Ah...sorry, Dr. Lecter," Jack jumps in, though Will doesn't think he sounds sorry at all. He probably can't wait to pick Will's brain for whatever he saw. "I should have warned you about Will's gift. It's not something we really understand--it doesn't show up on any test--"

"What you have," Lecter interrupts, speaking directly to Will, "is pure empathy. You can assume my point of view, or Jack's, or maybe some other points of view you may find unsettling." He inclines his head in acknowledgment and apology, but Will's too distracted to properly take note of either.

"Wait, what?" he echoes himself, shaking his head. "How do you--what makes you think you know?"

"Because it's kin to my own gift," Lecter replies with a shrug, sitting back in his chair again. "Maybe not close kin, but close enough. You read hearts; I see the basic nature of a thing. My Mother's people call it the knowing sense, and it's as intrinsic to me as your empathy is to you. It _is_ your baseline; the tests available at present detect only fluctuations, abnormalities, not what's always there."

"Then what...where did it come from?" Will asks, glancing nervously at Jack. "Could it be a holdover from a boon, or...?"

"It's doubtful," Lecter says, taking a mouthful of coffee at last. It might not meet his standards; he sits forward to set the cup down again a moment later, though his expression remains serene. "The attention of a god is hard to catch, and the power of their children is limited to what agrees with our natures. As I'm sure you can imagine, empathy is not a trait many of us would hold in a positive light."

At least he's honest about it, and about Will's gift. It may not be the comprehensive explanation he's wanted all his life, but at least it's something. Now if Lecter would just stop staring at him like there's more of the puzzle to be figured out....

"I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind," Lecter muses aloud, his voice a calm rumble. "Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations. Appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love."

It's like that brief moment of connection had gone both ways, but hearing himself discussed so candidly reminds him of every doctor and every agent who'd felt the need to pick him apart to inform him why he's a murder waiting to happen. "Whose profile are you working on?" he demands, turning to Jack in outrage before Lecter can answer. "Whose profile is he working on?"

"Not yours," Jack replies shortly. "You know there's been some question whether the killer is an Other. On the off-chance he is, Dr. Lecter's agreed to assist us."

"Come on, Jack," Will groans, frustrated. "This isn't the Chesapeake Ripper. He's not butchering those girls for the table."

"But he is still eating them, yes?" Lecter asks, head cocked at a curious tilt. "What makes you so certain they're unrelated?"

Will huffs a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "The Ripper sees his victims as cattle. No, pigs. In his eyes, they've got only one purpose, and all he's doing is making them useful. Whoever's abducting these girls is...he's careful about it. It has to be the _right_ girl, or it's no good. You said yourself your kind aren't sentimental--"

"Ah. Forgive me, but that's not precisely what I said," Lecter interrupts with another faint smile. "We may find it difficult as a rule to forge personal connections, but we're not incapable. It's just that most find the risks far outweigh the rewards.

"Regardless," he adds while Will's still digesting that, "I do take your point. You think the killer is looking for a substitute in these girls, but that's a more human trait than you may realize. Your eyes may be fooled by appearances," he explains, tapping his nose with the side of one forefinger, "but our senses are not.

"Well," he says, rising without warning, "if it is indeed a cannibal you're looking for, I may still be of use to you even if the culprit turns out to be human. Let me think on it, gentlemen, but I do believe I can help you see his face. Jack? I'll be in touch," he promises, and with a final look and a genteel nod for Will, he sweeps out the door before either Jack or Will can call him back.

Will watches him go, safe enough with Lecter's back to him, before turning again to Jack.

"What is he?" he asks bluntly, uncaring for once if it makes him sound prejudiced. He needs a species, though knowing Lecter's strangeness comes from his mother's side narrows it down considerably, as does Will's vision of a dark wood.

"Young. One of the Thousand," Jack clarifies, as if Will could possibly have thought he was referring to Lecter's age. "One of the first among the Thousand, if what I hear is correct."

Will grimaces. The way Lecter holds himself, it figures. "So he killed and ate his way to the top?" It's not really his place to be judgmental about it. It's what the children of the Black Mother _do_.

"Look at it this way. There's that much fewer of them to demand a tithe."

"They're called the Thousand for a reason, Jack," Will reminds him, tossing back the last of his coffee. "There's always one more."

He's honestly not sure what to make of Dr. Lecter. Will hunts men like him if they're human; it doesn't quite seem fair that an accident of birth gives the Others a free pass. Then again, a lamb probably thinks the same thing about the wolf. From all he's ever heard, killing isn't a hobby for them; it's a matter of diet, a need that can be curtailed, but only for so long.

It's a little surprising to him that Lecter's interactions with them bore no taint of perceived superiority, despite the fact that everyone in this building, human or otherwise, was potentially on the menu. The Thousand have a reputation. They're also the least likely to settle in one place, conform to the Compact, establish a reputation more complex than 'keep away.'

"You really think he's going to help us stop a killer?" Will wants to believe he will. He just doesn't see why Lecter should.

"I think we've managed to catch his interest, and that he's invested in seeing how things turn out."

He stares at Jack a long moment, wondering why he looks so smug. There's a touch of disbelief in his tone, a hint of triumph gathering at the corners of his mouth. He thinks he's pulled something over on Lecter. The proprietary weight of his gaze makes Will wonder if that something is him.


	3. Chapter 3

Will's not surprised to get a call summoning him to a crime scene. He'd told Jack that their killer would strike again soon. He just wasn't expecting to find a body when he arrives, and that's only the beginning of all the things wrong with the grim tableau that greets him.

They're a long way from the safety of a childhood bedroom. The open field where the newest girl is displayed isn't well-traveled, but it's not so remote the body was in any danger of being overlooked. The circling of crows might not have raised any red flags, but even a casual glance would have caught on the anomaly of pale limbs, a slender body floating naked and defenseless above the dry grass. It needs a second look to really take in the sharp tines piercing soft tissue from beneath, the stag's head braced upright in a cairn of rocks, holding the girl cradled in its antlers.

Zeller, walking ahead, jogs the last few paces to the body, arms waving. The crows investigating their lucky find flee at his approach. Price casts a dark look at the preoccupied uniforms milling around the field and shakes his head, mouth tight.

Will's footsteps falter the closer he gets. Jack, keeping pace with him, slows as well, eyeing him expectantly as Will shuffles to a halt. This is...he doesn't know what this is. It's not supposed to be here; he knows that for certain.

"The stag head was reported stolen last night," Jack starts filling him in, "about a mile from here."

"Just the head?"

_Wasteful_, some part of Will mourns, _to leave all that meat behind_.

"Minneapolis Homicide's already made a statement. They're calling him the Minnesota Shrike."

"Like the bird?"

"Shrike's a perching bird," Price says, straightening from his examination of the body. "Impales mice and lizards on thorny branches and barbed wire. Rips their organs right out of their bodies, puts them in a little birdy pantry, and eats them later."

That's...charming. Really.

"I can't tell whether it's sloppy or shrewd," Jack grumbles.

"He wanted her found this way," Will says, edging reluctantly closer to kneel beside the body. "I almost feel like he's mocking her. Or mocking us," he allows.

Jack leans in for a closer look, expression frozen in weary disappointment. Anger, Will doesn't doubt, will come later. "Where did all his love go?"

His words are a catalyst, clarifying the soup of contradictions in Will's brain. "Whoever tucked Elise Nichols into bed didn't paint this picture."

"He took her lungs," Zeller says: informing, not disagreeing. "I'm...pretty sure she was alive when he cut them out."

That's more evidence than Will needs that this is the work of someone new. "Our cannibal _loves_ women. He doesn't want to destroy them. He wants to _consume_ them, to keep some part of them inside." As Jack's frown turns thoughtful, Will rises to his feet again, pointing at the display. "This girl's killer thought that she was a pig."

Something niggles at the back of his head, but he can't look at this any longer. The innocence and affection he'd seen in the Nichols' house is utterly missing here. This is theater, a canvas, deceptively simple but masterfully composed, the girl at its center both necessary and interchangeable.

"You think this was a copycat?" Jack calls after him as Will starts to stalk away.

Will turns back, inexplicably angered by the question. "The cannibal who killed Elise Nichols had a place to do it and no interest in...in _field Kabuki_," he all but snarls. "So--he has a house," he raps out, counting off on his fingers the points bursting rapid-fire into light in his brain, "or two, or a cabin--something with an antler room." It's all so clear to him now, which only makes the next realization so jarring. How did he ever miss this?

"He has a daughter. The same age as the other girls. Same...same hair color, same eye color, same height, same weight.... She's an only child." Obvious. Damn it, so obvious. "She's leaving home." To college, of course: all those trips to find her new place in the world. "He can't stand the thought of losing her."

And he won't, not ever, if he makes her a part of him. If he carries her inside, the way her mother had, but not...quite.

"She's his golden ticket."

And if she weren't already, she's in twice the danger now. If a statement's been made, then this has already hit the news, and all the wrong people will see it. Her father. The girl. It may push him to act faster, her to do something foolish out of fear. They need to find the two of them quickly, before it's too late.

The chirping of Zeller's phone shakes them all out of the silent contemplation they've fallen into, Zeller scrambling to silence it with the sheepish grimace of a man surprised by a text in a darkened theater. Jack scowls and abruptly shakes his head. "What about the copy--"

"_Shit_," Zeller breathes, eyes huge as he scrambles four steps back from the body as if burned. "Uh...Jack? I've...got a positive ID on the girl."

Jack's eyes narrow sharply. "How."

"I put in a request with the registry to see if any tithes had been claimed in the area. Antlers," he explains with a grimace. "Got me thinking. And...meet Cassie Boyle," he says with a nod at the corpse, then a few more nods, as if he's gotten stuck that way. He stops with an uncertain look at Jack, almost a question. "She's Dr. Lecter's registered tithe."

Apparently it's his week for blindness, because Will really feels like he ought to have seen this too.

***

It's a long day and a longer night. Will would really like to go home to his dogs, but Jack's got him staying in Duluth, and he can't say he disagrees with the idea. He'll do more good in Minnesota than he would in Virginia, and if they're going to catch the Shrike, they need to work fast.

His dreams that night are filled with a massive black stag, its shaggy pelt shot through with raven feathers. It's not unsettling in itself, but the expectant way it looks at him, his inability to divine what it wants, leaves him slightly unnerved. His lack of understanding feels like failure.

The sky he glimpses through a crack in the heavy curtains is still grey when he's jolted from sleep by a knock on his motel door. For half a second he lies perfectly still, heart pounding as he grips the mattress like it might buck him off. Door. That was someone at the door. It's probably Jack coming to tell him off for wasting precious time on sleep.

He's so certain of this, he doesn't even peer through the spyhole, so finding Dr. Lecter on his doorstep brings him up short. Some distant part of him flirts with the idea of being terrified, but he just can't muster the energy between his broken sleep and the dull throb of a constant, low-grade headache. Mostly he's struck by how normal Lecter still looks, pleasant and relaxed and not monstrous at all.

"Good morning, Will," Lecter greets him with a smile. "May I come in?"

Will stares. That's really how he's going to play this? Waltz in like this is a typical day and they're typical coworkers who've never made pretentious art from the body of a dead girl?

"Where's Crawford?" he asks, looking past Hannibal in the vague hope of finding a distraction.

"Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today."

Wait, Crawford _left_ Will to Lecter? Alone? Will feels his anger spiking anew, but this time Crawford's not there to play unwilling audience. There's just Lecter, who can only be here with Jack's blessing.

Whatever Lecter said to smooth the waters with Crawford had better be damn convincing, or Will's going to kick him out on his ear, Other or not.

"You have some nerve, I'll give you that," Will growls, even as he steps aside.

Lecter's brows arch in mild surprise. "Is this about the tithe?" he asks as he steps inside, closing the door behind him. It instantly plunges the room into gloom, drips a cold shiver down Will's spine as instinct reminds him he's alone in the dark with a creature that could eat him alive if it hadn't already fed. Will's too angry to care.

"_Yes_ it's about the--do you honestly have to ask? Because facetious isn't a good look on anyone, Doctor."

Lecter tilts his head a fraction, setting a bag down on the small table by the window. "By the terms of the Compact--"

"No," Will cuts him off, slashing a hand through the air even as he's batting the curtains open a crack so he can look Lecter dead in the eye, every defense raised against what might intrude. "This has nothing to do with the Compact. This is about you making some backhanded point about what we were too slow to see when you could have just told us what you knew."

"But I didn't know," Lecter replies simply, derailing the rest of Will's rant. That--but he-- "I knew what your killer wasn't. Not kin, not to me or to any of mine. Not naturally a hunter of men. I showed you what a true hunter would do; were you able to learn from it?"

"You know I was," Will grits out, only slightly mollified. "Crawford must have told you." Lecter inclines his head. He's so matter-of-fact, neither apologetic nor smug. Emotionless, some might think, except Lecter doesn't strike him that way at all. "That was still out of line. Nobody asked you to--"

"No one in the FBI," Lecter cuts in smoothly, tilting his chin down to fix Will with a pointed stare. "But several of the victims' families entered a plea for justice with the registry, as is their right. Jack seemed quite pleased, considering I've effectively bound myself to this case until its completion. I merely chose to kill two birds with one stone."

Will is honestly dumbstruck. Did he just--? "That was horrible, Doctor," he grumbles. A bird pun? Really?

Unabashed, Lecter's mouth curls up in a tiny little grin. "I would apologize for my sense of humor, but I know I'll soon be apologizing again. You'll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly."

"Just keep it professional," Will warns. "And _don't_ do that again. I'm not consenting to be part of your meal plans, Doctor. If you want me to consider some angle, try talking to me first."

"I suspect that would make for some interesting conversations. We might even manage to socialize like adults."

Will snorts, turning away at last to go find some pants. "Socializing isn't really my specialty, thanks. And I don't find you that interesting."

"You will," Lecter replies with a touch of amusement. "I do hope your intention to avoid my cooking isn't absolute," he adds, unzipping the bag he brought. "I thought I might offer you breakfast. Something to start the day properly."

Will shakes his head in disbelief. "You really think I'm going to eat that?"

"I don't see why not," Lecter says innocently, laying out two plates, two covered ceramic bowls. Even through the close-fitting lids, the contents smell fantastic.

"Should I even ask what's in there--or rather, who?"

"Now that would be terribly rude of me," Lecter says, eyes dancing as he pulls out a chair, angles it toward Will, then circles the small table to take a seat on the opposite side. "Like offering only one option to someone with an allergy, wouldn't you say? Or serving myself fish," he says with a nod at his own container, "when dining with someone opposed to the smell. I'd be a terrible host in either case."

Will frowns, edging hesitantly closer. Is he saying his own breakfast is human-free? It would certainly be the polite thing, considering Lecter's present company. Deciding to chance it, he joins Lecter at the table; he's half-seated when Lecter's smile goes sly, amusement bubbling over.

"Of course, it might be a different story were you to attend one of my dinner parties."

Will freezes until Lecter's precise wording catches up to him. "'Might?'" he echoes, sinking the rest of the way onto the creaky motel chair.

"It's a game my guests like to play amongst themselves. I believe they call it 'eating at the cannibal's table.' It goes something like: he can't possibly be feeding us all human, so is it my dish or is it yours that's tainted?"

Will blinks. "I can't tell if you're joking or not."

Hannibal snorts. "Oh, I assure you, they're quite in earnest. People love to flirt with the taboo. Stand as close as they can to what they fear."

"And if I were to just...ask you beforehand not to? Politely?" Wil adds, remembering the other thing Jack told him Lecter is famous for.

One corner of Lecter's mouth quirks up in wry acknowledgement. "You could also ask me rudely; I may very well have given you cause. But certainty would spoil the game, and you'd be surprised how many neglect such simple courtesies."

It sounds...frustrating. And familiar: Lecter's guests turning an invitation to share a meal, one of the most basic social rituals, into a game of chicken akin to meeting Will's eyes.

He looks again at his plate, the covered bowl centered atop it, and considers his options. He could ask again what he's being served--Lecter hadn't actually said, only that it would be rude of him not to allow for another choice--but if he has to ask, he can't trust anything at Lecter's table, can he? Including Lecter himself.

Pulling the top off the container releases a cloud of steam. It smells heavenly.

"A little protein scramble to start your day," Lecter says, voice warm. "Some eggs, some sausage...."

Will huffs a quiet laugh as he picks up his fork, spearing a chunk of sausage first. Challenge accepted.

Then he takes a bite and actually stops chewing in surprise. "This is delicious," he mumbles through one side of his mouth before he remembers his manners. It's also, unless Lecter is a wizard with his spices, chicken.

Lecter's eyes crinkle at the corners as his smile deepens. "Thank you. I'm always grateful for an appreciative audience."

Was that another reference to his murder art? It was, wasn't it? "I can tell working with you is going to be fun," Will sighs.

Lecter looks pleased. "Indeed. We'll have to do it again sometime. Under better circumstances, of course."

"You sure you're not working on my profile?" Will asks, suspicious. He can count the number of people who actually want to work with him on one hand, with fingers left over. Most days he's fine with that.

Lecter's brows arch as he lifts his eyes back up from his own plate in surprise. "Jack did ask--not that I compose a profile on you, but that I act as an unofficial therapist. I declined."

Will sits back, setting his fork down a little too hard. "What?"

"It's difficult enough to enter into a doctor-patient relationship when the patient is willing. You seem more than capable of making well-reasoned choices concerning your own care; if you choose to seek my professional services, it will be entirely your choice."

"Then why are you even here?"

Lecter regards him thoughtfully, but when he answers, it has the ring of truth. "Curiosity. Jack seems to think of you as a fragile little teacup."

Will snorts. "You think he's wrong?" Lecter's chiding look says that's exactly what he thinks. "Then what do you see me as, Doctor?"

There's a lazy satisfaction in Lecter's smile Will doesn't know what to do with, as if Lecter's finding some obscure enjoyment in just looking at him. "The mongoose I want under the house," he says cryptically, "when the snakes slither by."

And with that he gestures at Will's plate, saying, "Finish your breakfast, Will. We've a Shrike to net, yes?"


	4. Chapter 4

They take Will's rental when they leave the motel. Lecter's in a better mood than Will expects; this part of the job is usually boring, and he's not entirely surprised Jack skipped out on it. He gives it an hour, tops, before Lecter's rookie excitement wears off.

Being behind the wheel with an erstwhile partner in tow takes him back, in a way riding with Crawford hadn't. It's impossible to think of Jack as anything but his boss, but even with Lecter being what he is, Wil's the one with all the experience. That sort of makes Lecter his responsibility, a fact he tries to remember when his natural inclinations lead him to be silent too long.

Not that Lecter seems to mind. He's still wearing the same look of indiscriminate enthusiasm when they turn off the paved road onto a dirt-and-gravel path, the wasteland of a construction site in its earliest stages looming ahead.

"What are you smiling at?" Will tries to inject a note of reprimand into his tone--this is a criminal investigation, not a weekend outing--but Lecter's good mood is infectious.

"Peeking behind the curtain," Lecter replies as his eyes rove over concrete pipes, two forklifts, building materials sheeted against the recent rains. "I'm just curious how the FBI goes about its business when it's not kicking in doors."

Will chuckles despite himself. There's no malice in Lecter's voice, though his words could have been interpreted as a dig. Will's not so removed from social contact that he can't recognize when he's being teased. "Aren't you lucky we're not doing house-to-house interviews," Will quips back. Lecter's been remarkably tolerant of Will's need for quiet; his patience should probably be rewarded. "We found a little piece of metal in Elise Nichols' clothes. A shred from a pipe threader."

Will's watching Lecter sidelong as Lecter stares ahead out the window; he still sees the exact moment Lecter's eyes sharpen from curiosity to predatory interest. It's a bit like a bird dog going on point: this place is interesting now in a way it wasn't before.

"There must be hundreds of construction sites all over Minnesota," Lecter points out. That's a conservative number, but Will takes his meaning.

"A certain kind of metal, certain kind of pipe, certain kind of pipe coatings...we're checking all the construction sites that use that kind of pipe." Will's good at what he does, but if it doesn't directly relate to people or what's left of people, he's not always clear on the specifics of where the forensics team gets their information. Maybe there's a database somewhere. He only knows they made a list; sifting those locations for clues is where he comes back in.

Lecter arches his brows, leaning over and in as he asks, "What are we looking for?"

"At this stage, anything, really," Will admits. Their killer had been frustratingly cagey until the mistake with Elise Nichols. At this point, he'll take whatever he can get. "But mostly anything peculiar."

He climbs out of the car then, not bothering to lock it up behind him. The site's makeshift office, a boxy prefab trailer destined to be hauled back out again when the real building goes up, sits just behind them. The car parked to their right suggests at least one person is already here.

The woman who answers their knock barely glances at Lecter, but the look she gives Will is far less impressed. Will doesn't have to meet her eyes to know her type: comfortably middle class, queen bee of her social circle, endlessly judgmental and convinced she's funny with it. Lecter gets a pass; even dressed down in another comfortable suit, he looks respectable. Will with his untamed hair and gun on his hip, unpressed shirt wilting in the humidity of the late fall rains, looks small-time by comparison.

Her opinion revises only slightly upward when he reveals he's FBI.

Lecter joins him at the file cabinets, pulling out personnel records and scanning through them before placing them into boxes with the others, but Will's not sure how much help he'll be. He's not sure how much help he is himself with no specific search in mind. Their best bet is probably to stop wasting time, crate everything up and drop it back at the motel to sort through later and move onto the next, but then something catches his eye.

"Garret Jacob Hobbs?"

***

"I take it we're not returning to the motel?" Lecter asks when it becomes obvious they're not retracing their steps. He sounds curious but not particularly bothered. Maybe he thinks they're headed for the next job site, that Will intends to see how many boxes of files he can pack into one vehicle.

Will pinches the bridge of his nose, bumping the glasses he wears mostly for reading and driving a little bit askew. "Look, I know you were just trying to help with that tithe, but once it gets out that an Other did it, not a copycat, our killer's probably going to panic. Being hunted by the FBI is one thing, but being hunted by an Other? Especially--no offence--one that was made to hunt? That's going to move his timetable up drastically."

"Or slow it down."

"Slow it--" Will darts a glance at his passenger, eyes making it as high as Lecter's sharp cheekbones before hanging there. "Why would that slow it down?"

"It's only the middle of the month. Technically I have another two weeks before I can claim another tithe, and since I accepted no less than three pleas to bring him to justice, he'd do well to consider himself marked."

Will frowns. "You think he expects you to kill him."

"He should," Lecter replies simply.

"Why?"

"Because there's no death penalty in the state of Minnesota, but the tithes granted by the Compact operate outside the legal system. A boon once claimed is a matter of public record; it would take very little effort on his part to discover that two of the three claims entered upon him call for his death."

Will opens his mouth and closes it with a snap, his hands clenching on the wheel. Part of him wants to pull the car over and ask Dr. Lecter to exit the vehicle, but he doesn't need any particular gift to see what a shitshow that would be. He takes a calming breath, glaring straight ahead. Did he not _just say_ that he didn't want to be complicit in any more of Lecter's meals? "There's a legal process for a _reason_\--"

Lecter chuckles, tipping his chin down like Will has said or done something charming. "While your dedication to the law is commendable, I'm afraid you're thinking too literally."

"Enlighten me," Will says through gritted teeth.

"Should he be captured today, there's nothing stopping me from waiting two weeks, or until the end of his trial, and simply presenting myself at the prison to claim my due."

Will lets out a slow breath, knowing Lecter is right. No one would stop him from doing just that. It's doubtful anyone would even complain. People would probably _thank_ him for choosing to dine on a killer and not someone who'd be missed.

"Of course, he may simply assume I'll wait the two weeks and grow complacent," Lecter says thoughtfully. "Making a kill to fulfill a boon is one thing, but most wouldn't have the fortitude to resist harvesting their kill, and that can get one into a great deal of trouble."

Will frowns. "With...your last. You only took the lungs." He's made it a point all his life not to pay too much attention to Others, refusing to glorify or fear them. That said, even he can bring a few of Lecter's displays to mind if he digs, even if he hadn't paid much attention to the name of their creator at the time. Unlike most Others, who store up their monthly kills like provisions for a long winter, Lecter never takes enough to render them unrecognizable. "Do you always...? Sorry," he cuts himself off with a grimace. "That's really none of my--"

"I spent the first dozen or so years of my youth eating nothing more exotic than what the cook brought home from market," Lecter says with a smile gone wistful, "except on rare occasions. I suppose the habit stuck."

He doesn't sound angry, so it's unlikely he was caged, and the presence of a cook implies a certain amount of wealth. While most Others either learn to fend for themselves or stumble upon an enclave of their kind--or get eaten by larger predators, with the Compact's blessing--Lecter must have been one of the few to be raised by humans.

"I thought the tithe was something you needed." That's always been a sticking point in every negotiation, just how much Others are giving up already in order to keep the humans happy. Now Will wonders if it isn't just to keep the humans complacent.

When he chances another look in Lecter's direction, realizing the man has gone silent too long, he finds not the panic of someone who's said too much but the distant look of a bad memory.

"The cravings are ignorable if it's all you've known," Lecter says at last, "and I didn't like the feel of the house after an exception was made. I tried not to encourage it. Would I have starved?" he asks rhetorically, shaking himself free of the past. "No. But I was very weak until I learned to hunt my own."

His own...meals? No. His own _kind_.

Will clears his throat. "Sorry," he says again. "I can usually be trusted not to ask glaringly insensitive questions if locked in an enclosed space with someone--"

"Because you prefer not to ask them questions at all?" Lecter asks with an innocent smile.

Will laughs, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since they returned to the car. "Guilty as charged. Look, if I cross a line, just tell me to redirect. I'll be more offended if you just let me continue to offend you."

"Not at all," Lecter says, turning his head to regard him directly. "Your curiosity is refreshing."

"And blunt?"

Lecter chuckles. "And blunt. But I prefer it to assumptions and poorly-drawn conclusions."

Will nods. Maybe Lecter won't be so difficult to work with after all. And it's just until the end of the case.

Though he's never been a morning person, he's glad now that Lecter woke him early. Hobbs' resignation letter had been recent, so recent he may well be between jobs at the moment. If they're lucky, they'll catch him home alone. If they're very lucky, he'll also be the man they're looking for.

The Hobbs' house sits near the edge of town, in that liminal mile where housing developments give way to scrubby fields and highways lined with rusty barbed wire fences. It's a nice enough neighborhood and a nice enough house, utterly normal.

They don't get halfway down the block before Lecter sits up straight, chin coming up like a cat spotting prey just beyond the tall grass. "Someone here is devout," he murmurs distractedly, prompting Will to lift his foot from the gas. "To my Mother. The trappings of Her worship have a very distinct flavor."

"Is that going to be a problem? If Hobbs is one of Hers." Assuming Hobbs turns out to be their killer, which...he's trying very hard not to make the exact same assumptions Lecter complained of, but it's hard to ignore the coincidence.

"No, not at all," Lecter says, leaning forward to peer past Will as they coast closer to the right house. "My Mother doesn't concern Herself with anything mortal. Short of one flinging themselves in Her path when She's hungry, She doesn't notice Her worshippers in the slightest."

"So you're not going to fight me if Hobbs turns out to be Her high priest?"

That finally catches Lecter's attention, but from the startled laugh that escapes him, it's the funniest thing Will has said all morning. "My dear Will," Lecter all but purrs, barely holding in his mirth, "if you want him that badly, he's yours."

"You're generosity itself, Dr. Lecter," Will drawls, finally turning the wheel over to pull into the Hobbs' driveway. He sits for a moment as he turns the key in the ignition, fishing in his pocket for the travel-sized bottle of aspirin that's been rattling around with his keys. His headache isn't bad yet, but he knows what's coming. Whether or not Hobbs is their killer, Will will have to read him either way, just to be certain. And if Hobbs does turn out to be the Shrike, and if he decides to run, or fight--

He shakes out two pills, ignoring Lecter's curious look, and swallows them dry.

"I know you have a claim," Will says, grimacing faintly as bitterness coats his tongue, "and I appreciate you telling me, but I'd like to handle this myself. Legal and aboveboard. Can we do that, or...?"

"Of course," Lecter says graciously. "I'd be happy to follow your lead."

True to his word, Lecter sits patiently until Will climbs out of the car, and even when he follows, he hangs back, standing straight and tall at the passenger side door to let Will choose how to proceed. Will eyes him for a moment, gauging how sincere he is with that promise, and when he turns back to the house--was that a flicker of moment at the front curtains?

"Doctor--"

"Yes," Lecter says: confirmation, not a question. He'd seen it too.

Will advances slowly, his spine and the back of his neck prickling. Certain he's being watched, he feels incredibly exposed, even with one of the Thousand playing backup. If Hobbs worships the Black Mother, he's probably a hunter of some stripe, and that usually means guns. If he shoots through a window--

Will freezes when the front door is ripped open, ready to move in any direction. A woman screams as she's pushed through the door, blood all down her front, but even before Will's brain finishes cataloging all the ways that image is _wrong_\--hair too short, too blond, body thickened by childbirth and middle age--he knows she isn't the _one_. Hobbs' defiant look, the purposeful way he slams the door between them, says it all.

He rushes to the woman's side regardless, but gods, Hobbs has done a thorough job. Her throat's been slit from ear to ear, so deep it's a wonder she even got a chance to scream, and before he can even think about trying to stem the flow, her scrabbling hands go limp and her face goes lax.

He's on autopilot, barely thinking as he kicks in the door, though some far-distant part of him finds the action deeply ironic. "Garret Jacob Hobbs?" he calls as he pulls his gun, edging further into the house. "FBI!"

There's a commotion further in, another voice raised in distress: lighter, younger, feminine. He rounds the corner on the kitchen and finds Hobbs standing with his daughter pulled back into his chest. For a moment, it almost looks like he's embracing her, protecting her.

"_No, no_," she's pleading, so scared she can barely get the words out, most of them hopelessly garbled. Hobbs meets Will's eyes for a heartbeat, a breath, and then he squeezes them closed again on a sob.

_No. No_.

The cut is sloppy, barely planned, just one desperate stroke that can't be undone. Hobbs' arm arcs wide, pulling him far enough away from his daughter to give Will room to pull the trigger. The first bullet catches Hobbs in the shoulder, knocking him further back, but it's not enough to stop him; when he shifts his grip on the knife to follow his daughter down and finish the job, Will shoots twice more, three times, and then he just doesn't stop until Hobbs fetches up against the counters and slides bonelessly to the floor.

The girl. _The girl, the girl, the girl_.

He all but falls to the floor, barely remembering to fumble his gun back into its holster instead of dropping it. A bright lake of blood is already spreading across the floor beside the girl's head, more spurting in forceful bursts from the cut in her neck. "No," Will breathes as he tries to stop the flow. His hands are shaking. No. _He_ is shaking. "No." He can't get it to _stop_.

Glassy blue eyes--_wrong, wrong, he'd known all along the others were wrong, close but not so close as to tempt him to actually_ do _it_\--flick away from his to catch on something beyond his shoulder. The soft tap of a dress shoe on tile reminds Will he's not alone.

"D-doctor," he says on a wave of relief, more than ready to hand this disaster over to someone who knows what they're doing. Lecter doesn't move. Tossing a harried glance over his shoulder that doesn't quite connect, he tries again. "She needs help. I don't--"

"I can't."

Will's fingers press tighter at the edges of the wound as he whips around as best he can, one knee slipping on a streak of red. "You _can't_?" he echoes incredulously, fury climbing up his ribs. "You were a doctor! You said you could fucking control yourself!"

"It's not that simple," Lecter insists. His eyes are fixed on Will's hands, but he doesn't look hungry; he looks disturbed, like Will's request is somehow improper.

"Is this an Other thing?" Will demands, teeth bared. "Do you _need_ something from me? Because I'll do it. Whatever it is."

Lecter's eyes snap to his, and he's--_troubled, everything's off-kilter now, and he's never, ever thought to be asked for this...but_. "You'd be--"

"I don't care, just _help her_."

Lecter's expression firms, but instead of walking away, he closes the distance between them and sinks to one knee on the girl's other side. There's a tiny hesitation before his hands replace Will's around the girl's neck, but his touch is sure. "Hello, Miss Hobbs," he says, ignoring Will in favor of meeting the girl's terrified eyes. His own eyes are grave, but his faint smile makes a good attempt at reassurance. "Please don't try to talk or move your head, but I must ask. Do you consent to bearing living witness to the bond between myself and Will Graham? Lift a finger, please, if you agree."

Will stares, wondering belatedly if he's signed away his soul, because that's an awfully formal way of saying he'll collect on Will's promise later. How much later? The cynical part of him says two weeks.

The girl tries to nod out of habit, but Lecter's hands hold her still. The finger she lifts shakes uncontrollably, but it must be good enough.

"Thank you, Miss Hobbs," Lecter murmurs. For a moment he almost looks like he's in shock himself, but he takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. "I'm afraid I have no talent for healing to make this easier for you, but I was a surgeon for a number of years. You're in good hands."

Will nearly lets a bark of hysterical laughter bubble to the surface. Was that a pun? Does Lecter ever _stop_? He must give himself away somehow, because Lecter glances at him again: weighing, thoughtful. Something settles behind rust-brown eyes, but Will's too scattered to determine what.

"An ambulance, Will," Lecter prompts without urgency, keeping calm for his patient. He's unsettlingly good at that. "If you would."

He would. Absolutely.

He only drops his phone twice before he manages to connect the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So is this a good time to point out that the file name for this one is "eldritchmarried?" I feel like this is a good time to point out that the file name for this one is "eldritchmarried." XD


	5. Chapter 5

Will takes the time to get cleaned up before heading to the hospital where the Hobbs girl--Abigail--is being treated. It's unlikely they'd have let him through the doors otherwise, but it has the added benefit of giving him a chance to get his head on straight before confronting Lecter again.

That unexpected near-failure of the Hippocratic Oath, that strange demand that Abigail stand witness to their poorly-negotiated deal: he wants answers for these, which he'd failed to get at the scene. There hadn't been time. A neighbor had already called in the attack on Louise Hobbs, and while not usually one to panic in a crisis, Will's head had been so full of a borrowed love for his phantasmal daughter, he'd been reduced to encouraging her laboring breaths with his own when the EMTs arrived just minutes later. Lecter had spared him a brief, comforting touch on the shoulder, but then he was gone, glued to Abigail's side with a watchful air that didn't jibe at all with his hesitation of before.

None of it adds up. The more he wracks his brain, the more certain he is that it's a cultural thing, but where it doesn't pertain to the Compact, Will's knowledge of Other customs could fill a teacup. It's not something he's ever needed to know; the Bureau has its consultants, its own small collection of recruits, but Others largely police themselves, and their notions of what constitutes an intraspecies crime frankly make his head hurt. 

He can guess all he wants, but the only way he's going to get any real answers is to ask Lecter directly.

He'd call the man, arrange a meeting, but he doesn't have Lecter's number. Jack probably does, but that would open the door on a conversation he wants to avoid as long as possible. He knows he jumped the gun with Hobbs, and it's not much comfort to know he was right. He avoids contacting Alana for much the same reason; he's not the only one vindicated by how things turned out, and he knows she'll drag the embarrassing story of his minor breakdown out of him somehow.

It doesn't matter, he decides. Lecter will get in contact with him sooner or later, if only to collect what he's owed. In the meantime he can at least visit the girl, make sure she wasn't hurt any further by their mistakes.

When he asks at the front desk for Abigail's room number, he expects to have to flash his badge, but they only ask for his ID. "You're, um...you're on the list?" the medical assistant who signs him in says, frowning uncertainly like she thinks she's being tested. Funny; Will feels a little like that himself.

It's not hard to find the right place. Abigail has a private room, which might be due to her status as both family and victim of the Shrike, but Will suspects there's an easier explanation.

When he lets himself into the room--no guards on the door, which stands wide open--the first thing he sees is the frail body dwarfed by a medical bed, a nest of wires and tubes snaking away from her sleeping form. She's porcelain pale despite the blood being fed back into her veins, and there's a lack of _presence _ behind her closed lids that Will only sees in the comatose and--if he's lucky--the dead.

Then he takes another step, lets his eyes drift just a little further, and sees the large hand clasping hers, the arm outstretched but lax in sleep, Dr. Lecter's uncomfortable-looking slump in the chair at her side. Barring Abigail's father, Lecter is the last man Will expects to find at her bedside, but there he is, offering comfort even though she's not awake enough to feel it. His cuffs are still red with her blood, but otherwise you'd never know he'd held a life in his hands just hours before.

Will is barely two steps over the threshold when Lecter comes awake, fully alert from the moment he opens his eyes. Lifting his head sharply, he stares blankly at Will for half a beat before wariness is replaced by warmth in the space of a blink. "Will," he says, keeping his voice down as if afraid to wake the girl on his left. He doesn't let go of her hand. "Good to see you looking better. Did you have any trouble finding us?"

"No, they directed me right to you," Will says, rocking back on his heels. There's a second chair on the other side of the bed, but he's not sure he won't heave himself out of it the minute he sits. Moving helps him think. "Which is strange, since I'm obviously not here on official business, but...apparently I'm on a list?"

"Yes, I made sure they understood your rights were on par with mine."

Will frowns. His _rights_? "I'm confused."

Lecter looks tempted to echo that statement but nods slowly instead. "I'm not surprised. Tell me...how aware are you of the tensions that exist between the various broods?"

He's a little thrown by what seems like a change in subject but willing enough to play along. "Well...I know a Formless would as soon spit on a Shoggoth as look at one," Will offers thoughtfully, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Even though they're roughly the same model. And the Shan and the Mi-go have a pretty bitter rivalry over tithes, since they both have a preference for the same organs."

Lecter inclines his head, pleased with Will's understanding. "And then there's the Thousand: pack hunters, but only until the first sign of weakness. You'd think that tendency to test each other to destruction would interfere with the taking of a mate, but we manage. Have you ever wondered how?"

Will arches his brows, puzzled. "I guess I just assumed you made the same benefit assessment as a human. If you're both getting enough out of the partnership, you stay. Most of the time the payoff is affection, but...safety, security, stability...there's any number of reasons people stick together."

"Astute," Lecter agrees, "with one minor addition. Tradition dictates a token...a display, if you will, of commitment to the relationship. Nothing so frivolous as a ring."

Will's eyes go wide as he slips his hands free again. He has a bad feeling he knows what constitutes a proper token.

Lecter nods again, his shrewd eyes picking up the moment the penny drops. "When an Other chooses a mate, someone must be found to represent that bond with their life. Ideally it's someone important to both parties, because the health and happiness of the witness is a living reflection of the bond itself. I'm also told it's much easier to convince someone dear to you to forgive you for the ceremony's requirements."

"If by ceremony you mean the fact that she nearly died?" Will demands, incredulous.

"In a very specific way," Lecter explains, one corner of his mouth pulling tight. "The baring of a throat holds much more significance to one of my kind than it would to one of yours. To bathe two pairs of hands in the same life's blood and have it not result in a kill? That could never happen by accident. Mingling her blood between us was a conscious choice; the only way I could have refused was to refuse to help."

Which he tried, only Will--

Will totters over to the other chair, grabbing the back of it to lower himself down just before his knees give out.

"We're married?" he asks, though he already knows the answer. "You're saying--I forced you into some kind of shotgun wedding, or...? Wait, you were a surgeon. Did that honestly never come up? Or is that why you left?"

"I left because I killed a patient...or it felt that way at the time," Lecter says without a trace of humor, ignoring the way Will freezes as his heart thumps once, hard, against the inside of his ribs. "No, I was fortunate that there were always other doctors available the rare times such cases arose, and the emergency room staff all had strict instructions to shift those patients to another member of the staff if they could."

"And if they hadn't been able to?" Will can't resist asking, wondering how he came to be the lucky one to finally break Lecter's winning streak.

"I would have been gloved," Lecter says dismissively. "Without the sharing of blood--"

"But--there would have been gloves at the house," Will points out with a growing sense of unreality. "Kitchen or maybe bathroom. For cleaning. Right? Everybody has them." Well, maybe not everybody--it's not an _essential_ expense--but a comfortably middle class family like the Hobbs? No way they didn't have a pair of yellow rubber gloves in a drawer somewhere, waiting to be used.

"Unsanitary," Lecter grimaces, even as his eyes go wide, "but...quite accurate. I...." He looks as shocked now as he did after gaining Abigail's consent, and the truth hits Will like a sledgehammer.

"That was the last thing you were expecting, wasn't it?" Will says with a lopsided smile, the absurdity of their situation catching up at last. "A near-stranger proposing to you out of the blue and refusing to take no for an answer."

"I was...not at my best, I'm afraid," Lecter admits, still looking a bit bewildered. For someone so habitually confident, this must be one hell of a shock to his system.

Will offers up a sympathetic smile. It's not like he's never done anything ridiculous when put on the spot...and considering how little he likes social situations, that's depressingly easy to do. He's mostly glad this wasn't anything worse. "So," he says, sitting forward to brace his elbows on his knees while he searches for the least offensive way to broach the obvious. "Does getting a divorce require an equally unlikely chain of circumstances, or...?"

The bemusement fades from Lecter's face as he glances over at Abigail. His thumb glides over her knuckles once before he pulls his hand away. "Not at all. It merely requires our living witness to no longer be among the living."

Will goes still except for his hands, which lace together and clench painfully tight. "You're serious." It isn't a question, but Lecter nods anyway. "Even though I didn't know?" Lecter doesn't point out that he tried to tell him. Will had insisted, giving him carte blanche to act, and Lecter had done what he needed to do. "But--"

He's human. Only Lecter never said the tradition was specific to Other pairs. They barely know each other...only people form instant attachments all the time. He's not even gay--

And he really feels like that should have been covered under the human clause, which leaves him wondering what fresh surprises his subconscious is going to dig up next.

"Which is it that troubles you?" Lecter asks politely, sitting back in his chair. He looks relaxed, but Will's very aware of the added distance it puts between them. "That I've referred to this as a bond, or that I've said it's reserved for mates?"

"Well, now that you mention it, 'bond' does carry some heavy baggage," Will mutters, shooting for joking and falling short by a mile.

"I wouldn't trouble yourself. Our association is no more binding than a human marriage--but, unfortunately, no less."

Will frowns, sitting up himself. Is he mirroring Lecter or adding his own distance? At this point he doesn't know. "What do you mean?"

"If you were to take a human partner in marriage, it would technically be considered bigamy," Lecter explains, purely professional. "I'm sorry if that ruins any plans...."

Eyes on the floor, Will says, "No," without hesitation, flushing when he realizes how pathetic that instant admission might sound. "No plans."

"Well, plans change," Lecter reassures him with a faint smile. "In the meantime, we're not required to share a residence, much less a bed. You're free to continue your life exactly the same as before. I would only ask that you allow me to leave your name on the guardianship papers. Should anything happen to me, it would ease my mind greatly to know that Abigail would be protected."

Will shakes his head, playing catch-up again. "Guardianship?" He'd ask if that was legal, but since Lecter is already doing it, he doesn't doubt that it is. The man seems incredibly well-versed in getting what he wants; Will's just surprised that he wants _this_.

"When she consented to being our witness, she became my responsibility," Lecter says, matter-of-fact. "You're not obligated--"

"No," Will says, leaning forward again. He feels like he needs to leap at this chance; he's fairly certain it won't be offered again. "I want to. It's not an obligation."

For the first time since Will walked into the room, Lecter's tiny smile reads as genuine.

"Thank you, Will. That's all I could ask."

Will smiles uncomfortably back. It's not exactly a tall order. Lecter's barely asking anything of him at all. Maybe that's what has him so unsettled.

People who don't ask much don't expect much, and Will would like to be the kind of person _someone_ could rely on.

Even if it's just his fake husband and imaginary daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Sorry it's so short, but I was thinking about the next bits, and no matter what I added to this chapter, it'd feel tacked-on and out of place, so...have a short chapter. D:


	6. Chapter 6

Will stays the night at the hospital, and no one asks him or Dr. Lecter to leave. The nurses work around them, mostly professional, though there are a few nervous smiles, incredulous stares. Lecter attracts the lion's share of the former, while Will's the lone recipient of the latter.

"Does the entire hospital know?" Will asks around dawn as a flustered nurse hustles quickly out the door. She'd barely glanced at Lecter, but she'd stared covertly at Will, checking him over for...signs of trauma? _Tentacle burns?_ He has no idea, but he's insulted anyway, and not just on his own behalf. Does anyone really think they would have..._consummated_ this supposed relationship while a young woman's life hung in the balance?

"It's possible," Lecter admits, "but it needn't go much further. You'll want to notify the Bureau's HR department of your change of legal status, but you aren't required to discuss it with your supervisor."

Will rubs tiredly at his face. "Wait...change of--am I checking off married instead of single now?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm required to report our bond to the registry," Lecter says with a wry twist to his mouth. He's holding Abigail's hand again, and he glances ruefully to her sleeping face before looking back to Will. "A small matter of ensuring I'm not claiming more than my allotted share of humans."

Will clenches his jaw. A substantial part of him--the part that doesn't gibe with how Lecter acquires his sustenance--doesn't want to sympathize, but it's hard to ignore the steady stream of inconveniences and intolerances that hem Others in. "Does it ever stop? All these little...digs."

Lecter tips his head thoughtfully to the side. "Well. We have our loathsome hungers," he says, arching a brow to invite Will to share the joke, "and you have bureaucracy. I'd say we're evenly matched."

Will chuckles softly, ducking his head. In Lecter's place, he'd probably be a lot less patient; it's a pleasant surprise. Most things about Lecter have been, not least the fact that he _has_ kept things professional, their odd relationship status aside. Lecter has offered as much information as he's gleaned, cast no nets, loosed no exploratory forays into Will's mind. He's not Lecter's _job_, and if he intersects it, it's as a fellow investigator, not a research paper in the making. It's refreshing to say the least.

Exhausted mind circling belatedly back to Lecter's previous point, Will looks up curiously. "Speaking of bureaucracy...are you suggesting we hide this from Jack?"

"Not at all...although it would be amusing to see how long it takes him to catch on," Lecter admits, startling a smirk out of Will. "I am suggesting it's not his concern unless you wish to disclose it. I have no reservations on my part--"

"You don't? I mean--tying yourself to a human can't be...."

"We'd hardly be the first, nor the last."

Now that...that is a surprise. Will suddenly wonders whether Lecter's ever--but that's none of his business, just prurient curiosity, and he puts a lid on it fast.

"What about Abigail?" he asks, sitting forward again to brace his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his palms worriedly together. His eyes dart from her face to her hands, unable to settle. She still looks too pale, too defenseless with her mind buried so deeply away. "Do we have any hope of keeping this quiet for her? She's already going to be in the spotlight because of her father. Being connected to an Other--_any_ Other...people are going to talk." About her diet, for one thing, and whether she'd developed a taste for fare only an Other could legally provide.

The corners of Lecter's mouth pull in with distaste. "People would have talked without my interference. But I agree she can't stay in Minnesota. Too many here will be looking for a scapegoat."

Will frowns. "You've been standing guard, haven't you."

"To some degree, yes. She'll be safer once she's transferred to Baltimore. I've already put in the paperwork, and I hope to hear this morning when she'll be stable enough to be moved."

Will sits up again, impressed but feeling a little redundant. People like Lecter--who think of everything, plan five steps ahead, and steamroll over every obstacle in their path--usually have him digging his heels in on sheer principle, but he can't really fault the man when he knows who that wrecking ball drive is acting in service of. "At least she's in good hands," he says with a wincing smile.

"Yes," Lecter says decisively, "I think she'll be quite satisfied with both her guardians. You will, of course, be able to visit whenever you'd like. Shall I email you the address of the hospital? Or would you prefer a text?"

"I'd better give you both," Will says, grateful for the distraction of digging out his phone to hide the warmth that creeps up on him at Lecter's steadfast inclusion. "Just in case. Jack may not let me go home for a while."

He's no seer, but he couldn't have made a more prophetic guess if he'd tried.

He's already close to dropping when Jack calls to tell him they've located the Hobbs' hunting cabin. When he tells Jack to pick him up from the hospital, not the motel, there's a longer beat of silence than the news really warrants, but Will's too tired to parse Jack's prickly moods into anything reasonable.

As he climbs into the passenger seat of Jack's SUV, Jack eyes him critically. "You going to be any use out there?"

"So long as I don't have to shoot anybody, sure," Will says without thinking. It shuts Jack right up, and Will stares straight ahead through the windshield, almost afraid to move, hyperaware that it was supposed to have been him and Jack out there yesterday. It should have been _Jack_ who pulled the trigger, made the collar, and he's not sure which upsets Jack more or why.

"Only if there's an accomplice," Jack says after a beat too long. The idea runs so intrinsically counter to everything Will knows and feels of Hobbs that he lets it lie. Humming a vague sound to let Jack know he's been heard, he sinks down into a more comfortable spot and watches the street signs roll up to him as his eyelids grow heavy.

He sleeps the rest of the way until a sharp banging on the window his head rests against drags him from sleep by the scruff of his neck.

"We're here," Jack says flatly, superiority and displeasure radiating from him. Caught wrongfooted again, Will can't even scoff at Jack's retreating back. As far as he knows, he's still on the clock, which means Jack's right. Instead of sitting vigil, he should have forced himself to sleep, been ready to work. He keeps his mouth shut, climbs out of the vehicle, and stumbles obediently after Jack.

The cabin is small but sturdy, two floors of knotted logs joined neatly together. There's police tape across the deeply-recessed door, no lights on inside, assuming it has electricity. Likely it doesn't: a plainclothes cop standing just outside hands him and Jack each a flashlight as they enter.

Inside the cabin is cluttered but neat. There's a wood stove, oil lanterns scattered here and there, chains and hooks to lift an animal up to be skinned, butchered or bled. Next to a pair of heavy shears, the carcass of a buck lies on a table, legs curled in as if just pulled off the truck that drove it in, but Hobbs must have been pulled away before he could deal with it. It hasn't been dressed, but he doesn't think it's been stuffed, either. Hopefully someone gets it out of here soon, or it's going to start to bloat.

While Jack's still poring over Hobbs' tools, Will spots the stairs and makes his way up, the thick boards barely creaking under his weight. The top floor is more of an attic, with the roof slanting in on two sides. There's a six-foot-wide path down the center where a grown man can stand upright, but even that's a risk. The entire upper floor is festooned with antlers of every size and shape, bristling from every surface from which they could be hung.

Right in the middle, two pairs of antlers stand out, their center tines stained red to match the puddle spattered across the floor. It's not much comfort, seeing proof that his theory was correct, that the girls had been mounted before Hobbs went to work.

"Could be a permanent installation in your evil minds museum," Will says as he hears Jack come up the stairs behind him. This place is definitely giving him the creeps, and he was forewarned. The worshippers of the Black Mother use a lot of antlers in their décor, prominence given to all the spoils of the hunt. This isn't even the weirdest Will's seen, but maybe that's the point. Hobbs' abattoir is neat, methodical, evidence of an organized mind. Whatever reason he had for killing those girls was rooted in logic, however twisted, not delusion.

"Well, what we learn about Garret Jacob Hobbs will help us catch the next one like him," Jack says, shining his own flashlight in a slow circle. "There's still seven bodies unaccounted for."

That's been nagging at him--he's seen antlers, pelts, bones, but nothing remotely human, unless you count the bloodstains--but there's a simple explanation. "Yeah, well, he _was_ eating them."

"Had to be some parts he wasn't eating."

Spoken like a city boy. "Not necessarily," Will says, thinking unwillingly back to his own childhood, days when they were so poor his dad got up early to fish for their breakfast, because at least fish were free. He'd been more accustomed to trout roe than scrambled eggs, the bones going to broth, the guts used as bait for whatever would bite. They'd found a use for most every part; there's no reason to think Hobbs couldn't do the same.

Turning to face him, Jack lifts his chin in challenge. "All right, what if Hobbs wasn't eating alone? It's a lot of work. Disappearing these girls, butchering them, and then not leaving a shred of anything other than what's in this room."

"Someone he hunted with?" Will hazards a guess, not paying Jack's suspicions the attention they might have deserved if he hadn't seen Hobbs so thoroughly.

"Someone who is in a coma. Who also happened to be someone he hunted with."

Will breathes in deeply through his nose to keep from saying something he shouldn't. "Abigail Hobbs is a suspect?"

He is so fucking glad now that he'd decided to save that conversation with Jack until the paperwork was a done deal.

"We've been conducting house to house interviews at the Hobbs residence, and at this property also." Jack speaks slowly, almost warily. When Will doesn't answer--not that it's a question, and not that the sarcastic nod he gives Jack can really be counted as a reply--Jack takes a deep breath. "Hobbs spent a lot of time here. Spent a lot of time with his daughter here. She would make the ideal bait, wouldn't she?"

"Hobbs killed alone," Will insists, darting a fleeting look at Jack's face before turning pointedly back to the bloodstain at the foot of gore-tipped antlers. It's mostly for distraction, but when he trains his small flashlight on the dusty boards, a metallic sheen glinting off a delicate, twisting filament catches his eye.

Reaching carefully past the sharp tines of yet another set of antlers, he tweezes a curling, red hair between two gloved fingers and holds it up to the light.

"Someone else was here," he says, refusing to look up when Jack looms over him to investigate. The hair isn't a match for Abigail or any of the other girls, nor for Hobbs' wife either. This is someone new. Not an accomplice; Will knows he's right about that. But if Jack wants to think there is, Will's willing to sacrifice this mystery redhead as a diversion.

It's probably a misuse of his position--scratch that, it definitely is--but he needs to warn Lecter that the families of the missing girls aren't the only ones looking for a scapegoat.

***

He's out for a week after the search of the cabin, HR finally noticing that he's been reporting his time in the field when he goes in to fill out the paperwork for a qualifying life event. Apparently he should've been on post-incident leave from the moment shots were fired; he gets a stock email listing all the benefits available to him and strict orders to go home, and leaves with the dubious comfort of knowing his change of marital status probably slipped right under the radar.

He doesn't actually _want_ time off--it gives him too much time to think--but having the extra time to sit with Abigail is a blessing in disguise.

She's in a private room, of course. Will's done being surprised at the expense Lecter is willing to go to for the things that are important to him. They meet sometimes when one of them lingers too long--Will thinks of it as a changing of the guard--but their conversations are more informative than personal. Lecter assures him that lawyers are waiting on retainer, discusses Abigail's care and when the coma induced to allow her to heal without further stress might be lifted. He brings coffee, sometimes food. Both are delicious.

He won't go so far as to say meeting with Lecter is the highlight of his day, but he can't deny that being in Lecter's company is unexpectedly comfortable. They have the same goals, if nothing else.

It doesn't hurt that the man's one hell of a chef.

***

His first class after his return is exactly as awkward as he expects it to be, but he doesn't quite feel like fleeing until Alana corners him afterwards, asks how he's doing, and then immediately follows with, "I didn't want you to be ambushed...."

"This is an ambush?"

"Ambush is later," Alana tries to explain, tense and unhappy with something already. "Immediately later. Soon to now. When Jack arrives, consider yourself ambushed."

"Here's Jack," Will says, standing away from the desk he'd been perching on to circle behind it, satchel in hand. It gives him an excuse to avoid Jack's narrowed eyes.

"How was class?" Jack asks, giving Alana a warning look she ignores with a bland stare.

"They applauded," Will grumbles. "It was inappropriate."

"Well, the review board would beg to differ," Jack says as Will starts putting his notes and laptop away. "You're up for a commendation."

Fantastic. Nightmares and a pat on the back.

"And they've okayed active return to the field."

"The question is," Alana interjects while Will's still digesting that, "do you want to go back to the field?"

Does he? He'd been told in no uncertain terms that it's the last place he belongs. He almost feels like he's bribed his way there with Hobbs' body.

"I want him back in the field," Jack tells Alana, biting each word off deliberately. "And I've told the board I'm recommending a psych eval."

"Ah," Will says under his breath, looking back to Alana. Suddenly her presence makes a lot more sense. "Are we starting now?"

Her eyes widen, brows lifting in genuine surprise. "Oh, the session wouldn't be with me."

"Hannibal Lecter's a better fit," Jack cuts in. "Your relationship's not personal."

Will doesn't even open his mouth, though he wants to. It's been over a week; it's a good thing he didn't place any bets on Jack finding out, because Lecter would have won.

"But if you are more comfortable with Dr. Bloom--"

"No, I'm not going to be comfortable with anybody inside my head," Will all but snarls. Jack nods as if he expected that answer and intends to fight it, but Alana takes a deep breath, expression placating.

"You've never killed anyone before, Will. It's a deadly force encounter. It's a lot to digest."

"I used to work Homicide," he reminds them both on his way to the door.

"The reason you currently _used_ to work Homicide is because you didn't have the stomach for pulling the trigger," Jack fires back. "You just pulled the trigger ten times."

There's more than just the wrath of being thwarted giving urgency to Jack's words. He actually sounds serious about this. "Wait, so a psych eval isn't a formality?"

"No, it's so I can get some sleep at night. I asked you to get close to the Hobbs thing. I need to know you didn't get too close."

Will frowns. What does that even mean? Jack had all but hounded him to think more like Hobbs, to sink into him until he could predict his next move. It had worked, so why worry now?

"How many nights did you spend in Abigail Hobbs' hospital room, Will?"

Understanding dawns. It's not Hobbs Jack thinks he got too close to. It's Hobbs' daughter.

"Therapy doesn't work on me," he warns, considering and rejecting the idea of telling Jack he has every right to be at Abigail's bedside. His last impulsive act where Abigail was concerned got them all into one hell of a mess. He's going to be more cautious this time.

"Hmm," Jack says, sarcasm thick in his tone as he stalks closer, trying again to force eye contact. "Therapy doesn't work on you because you won't let it."

"And because I know all the tricks," Will says to Jack's shoulder.

"Well perhaps you need to unlearn some tricks."

"Why not have a conversation with Hannibal?" Alana suggests, trying desperately to keep the peace between them. "He was there. He knows what you went through."

'Hannibal,' she says, the name falling naturally off her tongue. He'd almost forgotten that Alana was the one who'd suggested Lecter meet with Jack in the first place, that she'd studied under him, knew him, trusted him. It's not just his own instincts pushing him to relax around Lecter; Alana trusts him too.

Slipping his reading glasses off his nose, Will nods wordlessly to Alana and starts walking for the door again, not sparing Jack a glance.

"Come on, Will," Jack calls after him, not realizing Alana's already carried her point. "I need my beauty sleep!"

He'll talk to Lecter. He doubts very much he'll get anything out of it other than an update on Abigail's progress and maybe some excellent coffee, but they won't be able to say he hasn't tried.

As for the psych eval...maybe Lecter has some thoughts in that direction as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, got put on a new project at work that, while utterly devoid of mental stimulation (hence why I've been able to rewatch episodes all day) is a bit more physically demanding than usual, so I've just been exhausted when I get home. Still am, actually, but I'd rather write than sleep, lol.
> 
> In other news, I kind of feel sometimes like I'm doing the equivalent of "making game mechanics sound logical" when it comes to working around certain scene jumps or dialog choices in canon, so like...if anything seems weird at times, go ahead and ask if you want, I probably did it on purpose and can tell you why. XD


	7. Chapter 7

Dr. Lecter's office sits in an upscale part of town, sandwiched between a more modern office building on one side and a Chapel of Nodens on the other. The building itself is probably a historical landmark, and Lecter seems to have it all to himself; no other names are listed on the metal plaque outside, and when Will lets himself in, the only marked door leads to Lecter's waiting room.

Late as it is, he doesn't have long to wait. The door to the office opens only a few minutes later, Lecter appearing with a welcoming smile and a curious tilt to his head. "Will, come in. How was your first day back?"

"Equal parts uncomfortable and frustrating," Will grumbles, slipping past Lecter with a nod of greeting. "We covered the Shrike capture today in my classes. If you can call it a capture."

"I'm more inclined to question the timing. Have you even had a chance to process it yourself?"

Will shakes his head, brushing off Lecter's concern. "It was what they were all thinking about, so...rather than try to force them to learn something they didn't want to hear, I figured I could turn it into a 'teachable moment' instead."

"Did it work?" Lecter asks, leaning back against the edge of his desk as he watches Will prowl the room. It's not quite what Will would have expected from a psychiatrist's office: the one utterly stereotypical couch is offset by another in powder blue silk set against a red contrast wall that...actually does feel fairly restful, against all expectation. The art on the walls is all in black and white, complicated pieces that invite further study rather than soothing the eyes. He's pretty sure the stag sculpture cast in iron is, in fact, ironic on multiple levels.

Turning away from a ladder leading up to a small library on the mezzanine above, Will hunches a shoulder. "I won't know until they turn their papers in, but I think I've gotten more standing ovations today than the Baltimore Symphony has all season."

"Hmm. With good reason, I'm afraid," Lecter says, one corner of his mouth tipping up when Will is startled into a laugh. "Their brass section is frankly terrible. I take it you don't feel the applause is deserved?"

Will scrubs a hand over his mouth, turning half away as dull anger catches up to him again. "You know, when they told me I was too unstable to be an agent, I was willing to accept it. You don't necessarily want a guy who's going to get lost in his head every time he makes eye contact walking into volatile situations or scaring witnesses. I get that. Except now," he grates out, pacing back towards the chairs by Lecter's desk though he's too restless to sit, "I'm wondering if instability was a consideration at all, because now that I've proven I have the _guts_ to pull the trigger, suddenly _everybody's_ perfectly fine with having me out in the field."

"You think your earlier exclusion was based on their perception of your courage?"

"I don't know what to think," Will mutters, clenching his hands on the back of one of Lecter's twin chairs. "This sudden change of heart can't be because of my so-called 'gift.' They already knew what I could do; it's why they hired me at all."

"Knowing about a skill and seeing the benefits it can provide are two different things," Hannibal points out. "Sometimes a demonstration is required, especially if it falls outside the ordinary scope of abilities."

Will sighs. "Yeah, maybe. It might be a moot point anyway. Jack thinks I need therapy," he admits, mouth twisting in distaste. "He's recommended a psych evaluation, if by 'recommended' I mean he's made it a requirement for field work."

Lecter frowns, one forefinger tapping twice, three times against the lip of the desk before stilling. "I see. And unfortunately, in this situation my hands are tied. Were the review board to discover your evaluation was administered by your husband, you'd be pulled from the field again, at best."

"Not to mention the nasty ethics violation you'd be investigated for," Will agrees, shoulders slumping. Suddenly drained, he circles the chair to slump into it at last, rubbing tiredly at his eyes with one hand. "Mostly I was hoping you could recommend someone with an open mind for...people outside the norm, I guess. I'd ask Alana, but in order to ask Alana, I'd have to explain why the fabled Dr. Lecter isn't good enough," he explains with a wry smile to take the sting from his words, "and I'd rather this not get back to Jack just yet."

"Perfectly understandable," Lecter agrees, leaving the desk to sit across from Will in the matching chair. "He will find out eventually, you realize."

"I know. Probably the minute he finds out you didn't do my eval. I haven't exactly been subtle with how I feel about having someone poking at my brain, and he knows we at least get along."

"Well. I do tend to prefer a gentle nudge to a poke; perhaps that's worked in my favor."

"You're a breath of fresh air," Will assures him with a quiet laugh.

"And I may have the answer to your predicament," Lecter adds thoughtfully. "I have a colleague--retired, though she may make an exception in your case, as a personal favor. I can assure you, she's well-versed in navigating unusual points of view; as well as being a colleague, she's also my therapist."

Will starts, caught off guard. "You have a therapist? Sorry," he says in the next breath, "I just meant...that sounds like a house painter hiring someone else to paint his house."

"Which I'm sure you'd find me guilty of doing were that my profession," Lecter replies, nothing grudging. "I may not be able to turn off the analytical portion of my mind any more than you can curb your empathy, but I do try not to bring my work home with me. Seeing a fellow professional helps with that, and with certain stresses of the job."

"Huh. When you put it like that...." He wonders if Alana sees someone as well and feels guilty for never before considering that she might. She's always so calm, so put-together, it's hard to picture her needing any kind of help from anyone. Then again, he would have said the same of Lecter not five minutes before.

"Let me share a piece of advice," Lecter says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air to match his tiny smile. "Never trust a chef who won't eat his own cooking."

Will laughs, shaking his head. "Thank you, Doctor. Was that one on the house?"

"Family discount," Lecter replies as he sits back again, a hint of smugness teasing at the corners of his mouth.

Time freezes for a moment as that word--family--hits Will square in the chest. It's not a concept he's had any personal connection to for as long as he can remember, but it doesn't strike him as _wrong_. Even if their relationship is only on paper, they have a shared responsibility to someone deserving of their protection. It's not that great a leap.

Afraid he's been silent too long, Will clears his throat. "So...should I ask who you're referring me to?"

***

Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier is a surprise in more ways than one. Foremost is that she's agreed to meet Will in her own home, which tells him two things: first, that Lecter has somehow convinced her he's not crazy, or at least not dangerously so, and second that he should tread lightly, in case her choice of venue has more to do with agoraphobia than comfort.

It's a nice house, all modern angles and wide sheets of glass, with little in the way of shadows for anything to find a hiding place. Maybe that should have been a clue, but his second surprise is that Dr. Du Maurier is almost certainly human. He's not sure in hindsight why he expected anything else. Lecter may be uncommonly sociable, but the Thousand aren't known for suffering Others in their territory lightly.

Dr. Du Maurier greets him at the door, serious and unsmiling, but not necessarily unfriendly. Her face has the same still, unruffled cast as Lecter's, but where Lecter's betrays a certain intensity, an animal watchfulness that could flow into action without warning, Du Maurier's is as cool and polished as armor.

"Will Graham?" The measured, whiskey voice is a third surprise, but it suits her. Will gets the feeling that anything which does _not_ suit her doesn't gain traction in her life for very long. "Please come in."

"Thank you for seeing me. I, ah...haven't had the best luck with psychiatrists in the past," Will admits with a nervous laugh.

"And yet you seem to have attached yourself to one permanently," Du Maurier notes, one pale brow arching as she glances up at him.

Will rubs at the back of his neck. "Did Dr. Lecter explain...?"

"He did." Her faint, faded smile is also reminiscent of Lecter, except in all the ways it isn't. From her, it's a sign of her reserve. From Lecter--_oh_.

Lecter's trying his best not to show off his teeth.

"Well," Du Maurier says into the silence as Will digests that, "I understand you've had an unpleasant experience recently. Would you care to talk about it?" she invites, holding out a hand to indicate the rest of the house.

Will takes a deep breath. "Honestly I'd rather just forget it and move past it, but that's not why I'm here, is it?"

"No. But moving past it would be the goal regardless. Perhaps this interview will help you to do that in time."

Maybe. Maybe he just needs to get it off his chest. It's just hard to open up when he feels like a lab rat running a maze he can only see the walls of, with no clue what the researchers watching him run are making of his choices.

Not for the first time, he wishes they'd been just a little bit early to the Hobbs' place. He'd really rather have this conversation with Lecter if it has to be had at all.

***

It goes pretty well, he thinks. He gives his account of the incident, glossing over the part at the end where he got himself hitched through dumb luck and an embarrassing lack of cross-cultural awareness. He talks about his nightmares, but only the ones where they don't arrive fast enough or where he writes off the missing address on Hobbs' paperwork as an oversight.

He doesn't recount the one where Hobbs' bullet-riddled corpse took the place of his target on the shooting range. Nor does he bring up the feathered stag that's followed him nightly from one dream to the next. He's well aware of where it comes from, that Lecter's tithe had left a mark less gruesome but just as deep as Hobbs' death. He just doesn't want his 'marital' problems diagnosed with the rest of his issues where the review board can see.

"Well, Mr. Graham," Dr. 'you may call me Bedelia' Du Maurier says at the end of the hour. "While I would recommend you give therapy another chance, I won't prescribe it in my evaluation."

"Thank you," he says, pleased but not entirely surprised. He's had the distinct feeling through most of the interview that Bedelia is going easy on him, and he wonders if that was part of the favor Lecter requested. Maybe that ought to worry him, but mostly he's relieved. He already knows how his mind works, the traps it likes to lay and how to get around them. He doesn't need someone else barging in thinking they can manage his brain better than he can. "So...what's the next step? Is there anything else I need to do, or...?"

"Now I write a letter, where I tell them enough to assure them I've been thorough yet far too little to worry them," she explains dryly, one corner of her mouth tugging up. "I'll have it couriered over, and if the board requires nothing further of either of us, you should be cleared for fieldwork shortly thereafter."

Will nods, forcing a smile. He hadn't really thought she'd let him take the report with him, though the cautious side of him would dearly love to know what she plans to write. That would entirely defeat the point of having an independent examiner, of course; he's honestly surprised the board didn't insist on using one of their own preferred psychiatrists, but Jack must have pulled some strings.

"I see. Well. Thank you for your time, Dr. Du Maurier. You've been very helpful."

"It was my pleasure," she says with a private little smile. He doesn't doubt she's sincere, but what she has to be so pleased about, he can only guess at.

***

He's on the firing range when Jack sends for him next. He just hopes that doesn't turn out to be an omen.

Elk Neck State Forest is a mere two and a half hours from work, so Will drives himself, following the forensics team out of the parking lot, though he loses sight of them after a few miles. He hasn't ridden with them yet, but Price was kind enough to warn him that Beverly's got a lead foot, so he doesn't even try to keep up. It's not a race; where they're heading, no one's going anywhere fast.

It's a peaceful drive, all things considered. He pops a few aspirin as he settles into the monotony of the interstate, hoping to keep the dull throb behind his eyes from condensing into something worse. It's barely been a day since he was given the okay to return to field work, and he doesn't need his mind dulled by yet another headache.

Spotting the first sign for the Elk Neck exit, he shakes off the fog and sits up straighter behind the wheel. They haven't quite hit the trophy hunting seasons yet, so the roads are fairly quiet, the blustery fall weather deterring a lot of the casual campers and hikers. He barely sees any cars in either direction until he turns onto a pitted dirt road that leads to a police blockade.

The road he's shown is badly overgrown, pitted with deep holes filled with muddy water. He drives cautiously, unsurprised when he spots the small collection of cars, cruisers and coroner's vans up ahead and finds the others have beaten him here. The forensics team have already gone ahead; he imagines Zeller in particular was especially keen to get first crack at the site.

Jack's got his phone glued to his ear as Will finds a place to park, but it's obvious he's been waiting for Will to arrive.

"Will," he calls while Will's still pocketing his car keys. "I hear you got your paperwork turned in. Good."

"Well, far be it from me to deny any man his beauty sleep." He's braced for an explosion, but Jack only snorts, jerking his chin towards a line of police tape as he strides away, expecting Will to follow.

"So, Lecter gave you the all clear."

"Uh...no, actually. Dr. Du Maurier gave me the all clear," Will corrects him warily. "Dr. Lecter just pointed me in her direction."

Though he doesn't stop moving, Jack frowns, half-turning to give Will a doubtful once-over. "What happened to not being comfortable having someone in your head? And what was wrong with Lecter?"

"I never said I was comfortable with her," Will points out, scowling. "And my relationship with Dr. Lecter is...not as impersonal as you thought."

Jack's footsteps falter as his face blanks with shock. "You want to explain that to me, Will?"

Will takes a deep breath though his nose, squaring his shoulders. "No."

"No?" Jack echoes, incredulous. "Are you--"

"My personal life is personal, Jack," Will says, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. "You asked me for a psych eval. I brought you the one that won't invite a hearing somewhere down the line."

For once he seems to have struck Jack silent. Jack wants to ask--he's probably literally biting his own tongue right now--but they're breaking no rules, and no code of conduct applies. Lecter's a consultant, not an official FBI employee, isn't Will's doctor, and as far as Will knows, has no plans to kill and eat him out of turn. Everything they're doing is perfectly legal...except, of course, for the part where Will is keeping silent about his relationship to a person of interest, namely Abigail Hobbs. Then again, Jack hasn't asked.

Yet.

"So?" Will prompts when Jack seems in danger of remaining permanently off-track. "The report said this place was found by three kids who were _not_ looking for a marijuana grow--or so they claimed. Do we know anything else?"

With another long look at him, Jack shakes his head. "Local police found some tire tracks on a hidden service road and some small animal traps in the surrounding area."

"He wanted to keep his crop undisturbed," Will muses as the... _farm_ comes into view. He counts nine shallow graves--very shallow, barely deep enough to submerge their contents fully--all of them framed with cheap pine boards but no lids. The holes are neat and orderly, but there's nothing neat about their contents: all nine bodies have been transformed into grotesqueries, barely recognizable as human beneath thick rafts of mushrooms blooming from their flesh.

Jack nods, scrubbing his gloved hands together. "The only thing missing is the scarecrow."

"Okay," Price reports as he rises from his crouch in the middle of the line, "we've got nine bodies, various stages of decay, and as you can see, all very well fertilized."

"He buried them in a high-nutrient compost," Beverly adds, rising as well. "He was enthusiastically encouraging decomposition."

Zeller snaps a last photo before swiveling to face Jack. "They were buried alive with the intention of keeping them that way...I mean, for a little while."

"Long enough for the fungus to eat away any distinguishing characteristics," Price says, circling a finger at the shapeless mass that was once the nearest body's head.

"Line and rebar were used to administer intravenous fluids after they were buried," Zeller picks up the thread, tracing the path of plastic tubing along the ground and into the trees with an outstretched hand. "He was feeding them something."

No lids to their coffins, nothing between them and freedom but three inches of dirt. "No restraints?" Will asks, just to be certain.

Price and Zeller look at each other and shrug. "Just dirt," Price confirms.

"The other end of the air supply system comes up over there," Beverly says with an odd twist to her mouth. "It isn't a very considerate clean air solution, which clearly wasn't a priority, 'cause he isn't lazy."

"No, he's not," Will murmurs, shaking his head. No compassion, no _care_ for his victims. Like they...they aren't even....

Jack doesn't say anything, but Price seems to get the idea first, turning to the other two. Beverly immediately starts to pick her way out of the line of graves; Zeller opens a hand as if to ask 'now?' but as the others vacate the scene, he rises to join them.

Soon it's just Will, standing alone. He breathes in, out. The dead are still lined up before him, but he can't even find their eyes. It's another pair he sees through as he winds back time, shovels the dirt back over, and then--

_I do not bind his arms or legs as I bury him in a shallow grave._

Dirt flies, scoop by scoop. The man he placed in the ground doesn't move, doesn't flinch from the chill as rich loam hits his bare skin.

_He's alive. But he will never be conscious again._

He kneels beside the grave, the box, the _planter_. A mouthpiece goes in. Duct tape holds it in place for now; the soil will keep it there later. A tube for air. One problem solved.

_He won't know that he's dying. I don't need him to._

This man is incidental. He could be anyone. He's not the focus; he was convenient.

_This is my design._

One last look to make sure everything's in its place--air, IV line, Hobbs--

Will freezes, heart losing its slow, steady pace to hammer for escape against his ribs. Gone are the mushrooms, the anonymous victim. Garret Jacob Hobbs lies in that grave, milky eyes staring up at a sky to match, blood-stained and bullet-holed and not...not _real_\--

His lids weigh a thousand pounds, but he blinks and blinks again, gasping like a drowner as the vision collapses. That's...that's never happened before, and he's not sure why it's happening now, and he is not--

He is not prepared when the mushroom garden laid out before him heaves to life, one clammy hand reaching out to close around his wrist as a ragged breath rasps through a lipless mouth. For a moment the world goes horrifically sharp, the nerves along his spine singing like piano wire stretched too tight.

"Don't touch him!" somebody yells as EMTs converge from nowhere, and he can't tell for one confused second who they mean or why.

He staggers away, nearly tripping into the grave just behind him. He finds his feet, but the very ground beneath him feels unstable.

He only sees what's there to be seen.

So why is he seeing the ghost of a man he killed?

***

Standing in the forefront of the crowd of onlookers, Freddie keeps her hands demurely at her waist, angling her camera with the ease of practice as she takes shot after shot. She's barely going to have to do any work on this one; the pictures are bizarre enough that even if she didn't write one line of copy, the gallery alone would rack up an obscene number of hits. This one's going to go viral, she can feel it in her gut.

The mushrooms are what really sell it. So many associations: rot and decay and secret places underground. How to spin it, though...the weird creepiness of the fungus, or the more universal fear of being buried alive? She assumes they were alive, anyway; there's no point in making sure a dead man won't suffocate.

The whole thing is pure journalistic gold, but one thing stands out: a man in a plaid shirt and unstylish jacket, wearing a gun on his hip that looks somehow tacked on. He's not comfortable with it, but he's probably not comfortable with much; he has a skittish look to him, like a stray dog. It might be worth dangling something in front of him to see if he'll snap; if he's here with the FBI, he must know _something_. The question is: who is he, and why is Jack Crawford, the head of the BAU, playing tour guide?

She zooms, angles, takes another picture, and tucks her camera away. Putting on her most winning smile, she turns to the man on her left.

"Excuse me," she says, pitching her voice up to sound harmless, delicate.

"Mm-hmm?" He's engrossed in his notes, a local detective from the quality of his suit and his distance from the crime scene, relegated to the fringes of the case now that the FBI has stepped in.

"I'm one of the parents of the explorers who found the bodies," she says, looking up through her lashes with wide, admiring eyes. "I wanted to thank you for being so good with all the boys."

"Yeah, those boys were very brave," the detective replies, matching compliment for compliment.

"They are good boys." She gives him a moment to enjoy feeling appreciated, tipping her head a little to the side. "You're a local police detective?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Would it be an imposition to ask a few things? The boys are gonna have questions, and I just want to be as honest with them as--"

"Of course," he rushes to assure her. "Yeah."

"Can you, ah...tell me tell me what that man is doing over there by himself?" she asks, watching as the mystery man makes a slow circuit of the graves, eyes nearly rolling back as he shuts them on a deep breath.

"He's some kind of special consultant. Works for the FBI."

She hums distractedly, but now she's curious. Why does Jack Crawford need a special consultant? What makes him so special?

And what kind of headline is he going to make for her today?


	8. Chapter 8

"You okay?" Jack asks a few hours later, catching Will as everyone's packing up to leave. The last of the bodies have been loaded for transport, every inch of the area combed for clues, the killer's equipment indexed and dismantled for analysis. The forensics team will be putting in another long night, but once he leaves, Will doesn't expect to be called back until the bodies have been processed. He can't say he's looking forward to it; their lone survivor didn't keep the title for long, bringing the body count back up to nine.

"I'm fine," Will says, eyes on the rapidly-dwindling line of cars. "Just wasn't expecting a jump scare like that outside a theater."

"Yeah, I don't think any of us were," Jack huffs, shaking his head. He eyes Will speculatively for a long moment, but his curiosity comes without the fearful fascination of the hospital staff. "Is there going to be any problem with Dr. Lecter continuing on as a consultant?"

"Nope," Will says without hesitation. "No problem. In fact he's probably going to be my next stop from here." Not because he intends to discuss the case, although he will if it comes up. Lecter had _known_ something about the Hobbs family, enough to tell him where their devotion lay. If Hobbs' ghost has somehow attached itself to him, maybe he'll know that as well.

"And you're not going to be distracted if you have to work with him?"

"You're fishing, Jack."

"I'm just making sure my team can stay focused on the task at hand," Jack protests, his tone painting him the picture of innocence. Will snorts, eyes sliding further away and briefly hanging on a familiar SUV. Beverly and Price are busy stowing the last of their gear, but Zeller has wandered closer to the edge of the police tape; he still has his camera in hand, but his eyes dart between Will and Jack with a frown.

Will swallows a sigh. If Zeller misses being Jack's go-to guy, he can have the title back. Will has never in his life been the teacher's pet, and he's not enjoying being forced into the position now.

"I'm focused," he promises. "Now if we're done here, I'm going to go consult with the consultant. Since that's what you hired him for. Right?"

Jack shoots him a flat look but waves him off; Will makes good on his escape before Jack can change his mind. He's not sure how late Lecter works, doesn't want to assume he'd be welcome in Lecter's house, in the heart of his territory, so he pulls over just before he takes the onramp and fishes his phone from his pocket. It takes a half-minute's dithering to decide on email over text; just in case Lecter's with a patient, he doesn't want to interrupt if Lecter hasn't silenced his ringer.

He isn't sure what to say or how much he wants to commit to words. What if the simplest explanation isn't that he's being haunted but that he's losing his mind? In the end he settles on: _Something's come up. Need to talk to you. Can you let me know when's a good time? Thanks_.

He doesn't have long to wait.

_My last appointment tonight is at six_, Lecter replies not long into Will's drive back. He's opted to text, but the insistent buzzing of Will's phone against his thigh startles him only a fraction. _Shall we meet at my office, or can I tempt you to dinner_? Will's brows shoot up at that, but almost immediately another text comes through. _I still remember your dining preferences, never fear_.

Will laughs despite himself. It's not that he ever forgets Lecter is Other, but the man defies expectation at every turn. He's brazenly, unapologetically inhuman, but in a way that makes Will comfortable with their differences. Whatever else he is, Lecter's an honest monster. Will can respect that.

_Sorry_, he texts back one-handed, conscientiously keeping his eyes on the road as much as possible. Now is not the best time he could have chosen for distracted driving. _Coming back from mushroom site, don't even want to look at food. Ask Jack for pics if you dare_.

He sort of hopes Lecter will. Not only would it reinforce what he told Jack, but he's surprised to find he doesn't want Lecter to think he's avoiding his table for less savory reasons.

Then again, that mushroom garden was pretty unsavory to begin with.

Ten minutes goes by before he receives the next text, and when he glances down at his screen--_Interesting_\--he can almost see Lecter's expression. If he were a cat, he'd be all pricked ears and curious, batting paws. _I'll look forward to seeing you_.

Well. At least someone will.

One corner of Will's mouth twitches, tugged almost unwillingly into a smile.

Traffic is worse on the way back, though not as bad as the line of cars streaming out of the city as the exodus homeward begins. He still makes it to Lecter's office in good time, arriving just before the hour. In the waiting room, he parks himself in the chair furthest from Lecter's office, the voices beyond muffled to a dull hum. He imagines it would be different if he were to hover by the door, but he has too many problems of his own to want to eavesdrop on anyone else's.

He's prepared to give Lecter as much time as he needs to write up his notes or whatever it is he usually does between patients, but the office door opens almost as soon as the other voice disappears to the soft thump of a second door shutting: the private exit Will has used once himself. "Will," Lecter greets him with evident pleasure. "Please come in. Your message sounded urgent," he adds as he stands aside to let Will through. "Was it something to do with the case?"

"Yes and no," Will says on a heavy sigh. "I think your friend's clean bill of mental health may have been a bit premature." He'd like to give it back to her, in fact, only HR tends to frown upon them taking things out of their personnel files.

Lecter tilts his head, eyeing Will like he can read his troubles through his skin. Maybe he even can; Will hadn't really delved into what Lecter meant by his brief mention of a 'knowing' sense, but he wonders abruptly what he looks like to one of the Thousand.

He wonders if it's confirmation of his transparency when Lecter asks, "What did you see? Out in the field."

_Can't you guess_? he wants to ask, but the longer Lecter stares, the more concerned he looks. Will's worried too, but Lecter doesn't deserve the sharp end of his fear.

"Hobbs," he admits, eyes flicking up briefly to meet Lecter's before jerking away.

"An association?"

"No, a hallucination," he explains with a frustrated headshake. "Or a visitation--one or the other, and I'm not honestly sure which I should be hoping for at this point. I saw him lying there in someone else's grave."

Lecter's concerned look deepens, but he's surprisingly practical when he asks, "Did you tell Jack what you saw?"

"No," Will scoffs, though some part of him is...surprised--no, _grateful_\--that this of all questions is what Lecter's chosen to lead with. That's not the question of a psychiatrist; it's the reasonable query of a co-conspirator preparing for damage control.

Lecter says nothing until Will's restless feet start to tug at him, pulling him away from the waiting chairs and couches to the more neutral space behind Lecter's desk, and then he shakes his head. "It's stress. Not worth reporting. You displaced the victim of another killer's crime with what could arguably be considered your victim."

"I don't consider Hobbs my victim," Will protests, almost offended at the notion. 'Victim' suggests premeditation, and the ugly truth is that Will had acted largely on panic that morning. He knows his first two shots saved Abigail Hobbs' life. He has no such certainty about any of the seven that followed.

"What do you consider him?" Lecter asks. There's no judgment, no expectation in his tone. He asks like there's no possible wrong answer, only simple curiosity at an unfamiliar concept.

He must be amazing with his patients, because Will actually thinks about the question, but the reply he comes up with isn't even remotely satisfying. He gives it anyway. "Dead."

Lecter absorbs that without censure, though something has him looking thoughtful. "Is it harder imagining the thrill somebody else feels killing, now that you've done it yourself?"

Will has to puzzle through his meaning, because no, it's easier than it's ever been to reach that headspace--but that's not what Lecter's asking. Is it harder _on_ him to do it?

He wants to insist that he's fine, that nothing has changed, but his own body fights him until a helpless nod breaks free.

Lecter gives his own tiny nod of acknowledgement--sympathetic, Will thinks, and prepares to pack that surprise away to examine in detail later--but then the corners of Lecter's mouth tuck in, and he drops his eyes, looking down and away as if--

"Hey," Will says softly, gut twisting at the first sign of remorse he's seen cross Lecter's face. "That isn't your fault."

Still looking at the floor, Lecter shakes his head. "You know why I was there."

"I did. You told me. And I asked you to back off, remember?" Will keeps his tone light. He doesn't want Lecter to think he's accusing him; he's not. "You offered to take care of Hobbs and I turned you down. You're not responsible for my choices. I knew what could happen when I put on my gun that morning."

Lecter's mouth pulls to one side, dissatisfied but willing to concede. "Still. That it's troubled you to this extent...."

"Yeah, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about," Will jumps in, eager to steer Lecter away from all consideration of blame. "Seeing Hobbs wasn't some manifestation of guilt. I don't--I don't _feel_ guilty," he admits with a grimace. "I also don't see what isn't there. I read people, evidence, but there was nothing there that even remotely tied back to Hobbs."

"Except for you," Lecter says, having lifted his head to eye Will curiously once more.

"Exactly. Except for me." Leaning tiredly back against one of the room's decorative columns, Will searches for a way to ask what he needs to without sounding like he's working up to asking for a favor and decides to just bite the bullet. Bluntness has served him well with Lecter so far. "You knew something was up with the Hobbs family while we were still in the car. If Hobbs' ghost has somehow...attached itself to me, would you be able to tell? I know human souls don't generally turn into ghosts without some pretty specific interference, but...."

Lecter prowls closer but stops well outside Will's personal bubble. "To borrow a phrase...yes and no," he says in the midst of giving Will a thorough once-over. "I'm afraid my gift is both broader and less precise than yours. If it helps, I don't sense any marks of occult interference, but there's no guarantee I would."

"But...in the car. How did you...?"

Lecter nods as if expecting Will's confusion, settling back to lean against the edge of his desk, hands braced comfortably to either side. "That was something else entirely. The Hobbs family were not only devout; they'd been dedicated to my Mother's worship--whether as converts or children, I couldn't say. A mark like that has a resonance to it, difficult to describe. Like the gathering of static before a storm. I can't always tell which god they're sworn to, but if they belong to my Mother, that I would recognize."

"Handy if you want to avoid a feud, I guess," Will says, mulling over the ramifications of such an ability. He can think of more than a few cases where having Lecter or someone like him along would have prevented a lot of bloodshed just by forewarning the officers and agents with them of what to expect.

"Indeed," Lecter agrees with a small, swift smile. He sobers in the next breath, brows creasing as he rakes Will with another measuring look, as if he can see past layers of clothing and skin to what might rest in the heart of him. "As for Hobbs' ghost, were it present and manifest, I would know it for what it was, even if I'd never seen such a thing before, but first I would have to see it."

Will frowns, tucking his thumbs into his pockets as he settles his spine more comfortably against the pillar at his back. "You said you see the basic nature of a thing."

Lecter nods, tilting his head just a little to the left. "When humans are very young, everything is new to them, yes?" he says, tone pitched as if it really is a question. As if he doesn't _know_. "You have to test for yourself to discover whether something is soft or sharp, whether it represents food and safety or whether it will burn you. Through experience, you learn to recognize these qualities and apply them to things which are similar."

"Well, yes. But that's not just humans, that's...everything," Will points out, suddenly certain he's about to be corrected.

One shoulder lifts with studied casualness. "My siblings and I have never experienced that. I was slow to grow, but fairly typical of my kind when I was whelped; roughly equivalent to a five-year-old human. I had no words for what I knew, but from the moment I opened my eyes, I could tell predator from prey, and whether that predator was hungry. Whether my dinner was more likely to bite back or run."

"So you were able to hunt on the first day?" He wouldn't have _looked_ human, Will knows that much, but he'd always thought the photos he'd seen of spindly-limbed, feral children with their mouths full of teeth and antlers already coming in were the age they appeared to be. It had never once occurred to him to think of them as _babies_, but it makes a horrible kind of sense. Abandoned at birth, wherever that happened to occur, if they couldn't feed themselves while keeping out of the way of their older siblings, they wouldn't survive the night.

Lecter shakes his head. "Within minutes," he corrects, relaxed and calm. Purposefully nonthreatening. "We're usually whelped in multiples; whoever opens their eyes first usually gets a free meal."

Will stares. He should probably be disgusted by that admission, but mostly what he feels is sympathy. What a terrifying way to come into a world, where your survival might hinge on seconds. "I can definitely see how you'd need to spot danger right away."

Lecter chuckles, expression softening in fond recollection. "The Lecters had quite a time with me. Just because I knew what something was, that didn't mean I always understood what it had to do with me, or why I should care. My father's typewriter seemed particularly senseless when language was cumbersome enough when spoken aloud. Clothing was a bone of contention for months," he adds with a self-deprecating smile. "I wasn't cold, and once I perfected my human form, surely my disguise was complete."

"Well, obviously someone carried their point on that one," Will says with a grin. Lecter's dressed more formally today, in a dark blue suit with an almost invisible striping of plaid, burgundy tie still cinched tight though he's no longer on the clock. It looks natural on him, an extension of his confidence and the precision of his speech, the steadfast air of control.

"My human mother. She had a wonderful fierceness to her, but she was always very patient. As my introduction to humanity, I couldn't have asked for a better ambassador."

Will's grin gentles as the picture compiling in the back of his head comes into sharper focus. "She was the first human you met?"

"Yes. Motherhood had been denied her, and yet it blazed out of her like a beacon. It was hardly a difficult decision, following her home.

"So," Lecter says, clearing his throat and wrenching himself deliberately back on topic, "to answer your question: were I to see Hobbs' ghost, I could tell you if it were hungry, or malicious, or scared. I might have some notion of how to kill it, were it an active threat. But I see nothing in you to suggest you've been invaded, nor hooks to draw a spirit back. I believe your mind may simply have used the trappings of one stressful situation to remind you it's seen a few others recently...and perhaps request a vacation."

Budding urge to interrupt derailed by laughter, Will shakes his head. "Yeah, that'd go over really well with Jack. But...actually, you might just be on to something, there," he realizes, scrubbing a hand over his mouth as he stands away from the column at his back. "Maybe my mind _was_ trying to tell me something by showing me a ghost. When I saw Hobbs, I was reading the scene," he explains at Lecter's curious look. "I was kneeling beside the most recent body, but it wasn't a body. Not yet. Maybe...subconsciously, I must have realized he was still breathing, but he _looked_...dead. Even when he reached for me."

Lecter's frown deepens. Rising from the desk, he moves closer, stopping just within reach for another thorough examination. He must be reassured by what he sees, trepidation fading to interest after a moment. "Was that why the arms were left exposed? So he could hold their hands? Feel the life leaving their bodies?"

"No, that's too esoteric for someone who took the time to bury his victims in a straight line," Will says, scrubbing his hands together as he recalls that perfectly even row. "He's more...practical."

"He was cultivating them," Lecter suggests, turning to follow him as the discomfort of memory buzzing under his skin prods Will into motion again.

He doesn't go far, just a few steps away to Lecter's desk, taking the same spot Lecter had vacated a moment before. "He was keeping them alive, feeding them intravenously."

"But your farmer let his crops die, save for the one that didn't."

"And the one that didn't died on the way to the hospital, though they weren't crops," Will points out, uncertain now whether he'd made that sufficiently clear to Jack. The unexpected waking of the ninth victim had taken precedence over...quite a lot of things. "They were the fertilizer. The fungus their bodies were covered in--that was the crop."

Leaning his forearms on the tall back of his chair, Lecter asks, "A fungus from Earth? Or Yuggoth?"

"Earth," Will assures him, ignoring the shudder that wants to prickle down his spine. He's seen what comes out of the portals that open from the dark planet. Fungus isn't the worst, but none of it is good. "This was a garden, not a nursery."

Gaze unfocused as he ponders the problem, Lecter shrugs minutely. "The structure of a fungus mirrors that of the human brain. An intricate web of connections."

"So maybe he admires their ability to connect," Will muses, "the way human minds can't."

"Yours can."

"Yep," Will says, thinking at first to go along with the joke, but while Lecter's laughing too, Will can tell he means it. "Yeah, not physically."

"Is that what your farmer is looking for?" Hannibal asks as he straightens, resting only his hands on the chair back. "Some sort of connection?"

Will arches his brows, tipping a thoughtful look up at Lecter. Their eyes meet again; he blinks, and for a fraction of a second finds himself in a dark forest again, not one hand but two on his shoulders this time. They prevent him from turning to see what's behind him, but it feels like they're holding him steady, not just holding him still.

He blinks again, rapidly, ready to apologize, but Lecter doesn't seem troubled. He can feel Lecter reeling himself in, tightening his defenses, but so methodically it reads as politeness rather than perturbation. It's a little daunting. Will never wants to pry, but he's not used to feeling welcome.

Strangely enough, with Lecter he's never felt anything else.

***

Hannibal doesn't attempt to detain Will when he rises at last to leave. It's just as well; as much as Hannibal enjoys their discussions, he'd taken a call not long after Will contacted him and agreed to conduct a new patient interview. At the time, not knowing what Will needed to talk about, he'd intended to give himself an out should their conversation veer toward subjects he wasn't prepared to entertain.

All the same he finds the timing of his caller, her urgency and persistence, suspicious to say the least. He can't help wondering whether Miss Kimball's interest in him masks a much greater interest in the man who just left.

The woman standing in his waiting room is small of stature, her face obscured by a cloud of tight red curls. With her back to him, she scrambles with something in her purse, spinning to face him with a brilliant smile that has likely distracted many. It takes no effort at all to see past it.

Greed. Miss Kimball, if that is indeed her name, is an empty pit of want, all stomach and teeth, and money is the least of what she hungers for. There's a sharp twist of spite in her, an arrogance that gives her claws, but the singular thing which drives her is hard to pinpoint. She wants power for the sake of wielding it, knowledge for the delight in showing off how much she knows. He can sense no envy, no lust for revenge, no desire to prove herself to anyone. She wants, so she takes. She'd almost be fascinating for the purity of her hunger had the pursuit of it not led her to encroach on his territory.

"Miss Kimball?" he asks for formality's sake.

"Yes," she replies, slightly breathless. For a moment he wonders, amused, if she even knows what he is.

"Good evening. Please come in."

He's always curious what people expect to see when they stare around his office with such open fascination. Piles of gnawed bones, perhaps, or a bloody handprint or two for ambience. Miss Kimball looks like she's memorizing everything she sees, as if she'll have to report back on it later.

Moment by moment, his suspicions solidify into certainty.

"I've never seen a psychiatrist before," she says, eyes lit with glee that doesn't quite bleed through in her tone. "And I am unfortunately thorough, so you're one of three doctors I'm interviewing. It's more or less a bakeoff," she says with a helpless shrug, almost apologetic.

"I'm very supportive of bakeoffs," he assures her with a smile. "It's important you find someone you're comfortable with."

"I can imagine you as my therapist," she says, relief and admiration filling her eyes, "which is good. If I can't visualize opening up emotionally, I know it would be a problem."

No, she certainly hasn't ever seen a psychiatrist before; she has no idea what to expect, so her lead-in is stilted and clumsy. He imagines she's usually much smoother in her quest for information. Perhaps she's rushing because she's afraid.

"May I ask why now?"

She's tilted her head so that her cheek nearly rests on her shoulder, and she twists a little from side to side like a nervous child. She doesn't answer directly, countering with, "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions first?" Smoothing her skirt, she seats herself in one of the chairs before his desk with such innocent enthusiasm she bounces a little, her purse tucked primly in her lap. Eager, harmless, she leans forward a little as if hanging on his every word.

"Of course not," he says, idly wondering if he should be insulted by her heavy-handed attempts to appeal to him as a man rather than a monster. She doesn't seem to think much of his intelligence if this is the tack she's chosen.

She heaves a smiling sigh. "I love that you've written so much on social exclusion. Since that's why I'm here, I was wondering--"

"Are you Freddie Lounds?" he interrupts--rudely, but he finds himself tiring of the game already. Jack Crawford had mentioned the same topic of research before trying to enlist him to unlock an admittedly fascinating mind. He believes he's heard all from Miss Lounds that he needs to.

She makes a disgruntled sound, looking away as if insulted, but she doesn't refute the accusation.

"This is unethical," he informs her as she ducks her head, "even for a tabloid journalist."

"I am...I am so embarrassed," she says with real feeling, as if a show of honesty now will sway him.

He nods in understanding but drops his eyes to her hands. "I'm afraid I must ask for your bag."

She cocks her head as if she can't possibly have heard him correctly. "What?"

"Your bag. Please hand it over. I'd rather not take it from you."

She looks away again, but puzzlingly, her scent doesn't change at all. Delicate and floral, it contains no tell-tale notes of fear, as flat as her displays of emotion are vivid. She checks off so many interesting boxes--diminished fear capacity, manipulative behavior, a callous disregard for others and the sheer arrogance that led her to his door--it's almost a pity she hasn't come to him for therapy. Not that she needs his interference to reach her full potential. Unless he's very much mistaken, she already has.

Sliding the strap off her shoulder, she holds out her purse--at the full length of her arm, he notices. She may not be afraid of him, but she's not altogether unwise.

"Thank you," he says as he relieves her of it. He doesn't truly wish to dig through a lady's bag, but it's not required; when he opens the clasp, one look inside finds a small recording device resting atop her compact and coin purse, likely the very thing she was rushing to hide when he found her in his waiting room.

He lifts his eyes to her expectantly, head still tipped down.

"I was recording our conversation," she offers before he can ask.

"Our conversation? Yours and mine?"

"Yes."

"No other conversation?"

Her chin tips up defiantly. "No."

He closes her purse again but keeps hold of it. "You were very persistent about your appointment time. How did you know when Will Graham would be here?"

"I may have also recorded your session with Will Graham," she admits. It's a peculiar habit of hers: dropping morsels of honesty as if she expects them to throw a hunter off her trail.

"You didn't answer the question. How did you know?" Will Graham is not his patient--which should disappoint him, and yet he can only muster a profound satisfaction that Will hasn't become Bedelia's either. The fact remains that they have no set schedule; he himself hadn't known to expect Will tonight. For Miss Lounds to have been here at the same time as Will, either she somehow managed to intercept their texts, or Will said something unguarded around someone who spoke out of turn.

"I can't answer that question," Miss Lounds insists.

He doesn't need her to invoke journalistic immunity. She's already answered him. It's tempting to force the particulars out of her, but he doesn't doubt he could find the culprit easily enough on his own, and he has no intention of handing her any ammunition that might spark an investigation by the registry.

He lets the silence stretch past the point of discomfort, then turns abruptly away. "Come," he says in a pleasant tone, caging as smile as her bravado turns to confusion. "Sit by me," he invites, patting the place beside him as he takes a seat on the antique couch by the wall.

She hesitates, but in the end comes cautiously over, perching as far from him as she can manage. He has to lean over a bit to hand her the recording device he fetches from her purse, getting a stronger whiff of her perfume: hyacinth, lily, calamus. A distinctive blend, easy enough to remember.

"Delete the conversations you recorded," he orders, though he keeps his tone polite. "Doctor-patient confidentiality works both ways." She hesitates, weighing her options. He doesn't doubt she could recreate her recording from memory, but without proof to back her articles and dodge any lawsuits, her ability to print with impunity is limited. "Delete it, please."

She obeys grudgingly, not looking at him as she hands the device back. He drops it back into her purse, closes it up, and then sets it neatly aside, well out of her reach.

"You've been terribly rude, Miss Lounds," he informs her, watching her expression slowly change from resentment to the first vague stirrings of fear, eclipsed almost entirely by disbelief. Adding narcissist to his profile, he wonders if he'll require the blunt force instrument of the tithe to silence her properly after all.

When she doesn't break, doesn't bolt, he nearly smiles.

"What's to be done about that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fungi (not) From Yuggoth!](http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/poetry/p289.aspx) Yeah, I went there. XD


	9. Chapter 9

The BAU's lab always runs cold, and the ventilation is to-notch, but the place still smells like a compost heap when Will looks in the next morning. Hard as they've tried to contain it all, dirt still clings between growths jostling for space, the musty smell of fungus mingling with the meatier notes of decomposition. It takes him a moment to get used to the scent, and he stays well back as he watches the others at work. He hasn't gloved up anyway, but more than that, some primal part of him doesn't want to get too close in case he wakes one up again.

_Not what happened_, he tells himself firmly. The superstitious savage that lives in his DNA doesn't care.

"What were they soaked in?" he asks, eyeing the body Price and Zeller are working on now. From the length of the hair, he'll assume it's a woman. Her arms lie lax at her sides, one palm turned down, the other up. Her fingernails are surprisingly clean, and her wrists show no ligature marks, no sign of bruising. His thoughts keep circling back to that, over and over. How had their killer kept them in place?

Zeller turns to answer him, but Price jumps in before he gets the chance.

"A highly concentrated mixture of hardwoods, shredded newspaper, and pig poop. Perfect for growing mushrooms and other fungi."

"It was _not_ the mushrooms, though," Zeller adds, holding up a warning finger. "They all died of kidney failure."

"Dextrose in all the catheters," Beverly confirms as she joins them, holding out a sheaf of paperwork to Zeller, who trades off with Price the file he's been flipping through. "He probably used some kind of dialysis or peristaltic to pump fluids after their circulatory systems broke down."

"Force feeding them sugar water?" Will asks as he goes to fetch his coffee off the other examination table. The techs moving around the second body don't even glance at him or his cup; he tries distractedly to remember whether the table was already in use when he set it down in the first place but comes up blank.

"You know who loves sugar water?" Price says brightly. "Mushrooms. They crave it."

Zeller shrugs. "Recovering alcoholics. They crave sugar." He turns suddenly to Price with an embarrassed grimace, saying, "Don't take that personally buddy."

"Oh, I'm not recovering."

"Feed sugar to the fungus in your body," Zeller forges on, "the fungus creates alcohol, so it's...it's like friends helping friends, really."

Zeller grins, pleased with the dots he's connected, but it doesn't quite add up. Will knows more than he'd like to about alcoholic stupors, had seen his old man passed out more times than he cared to count, so far under he'd wondered more than once if he'd still have a father at all in the morning. It never lasted, though, not long enough to grow a bumper crop of mushrooms or to sleep through being buried alive.

"It's not just alcoholics who have compromised endocrine systems," he reminds them, coming back for a closer look. "They all died of kidney failure?"

A round of nods all around.

"Death by diabetic ketoacidosis."

Beverly cocks her head, turning to Zeller. "Did you know they were diabetics?"

"Uh, we _don't_ know they were diabetics--"

"No, they're all diabetics," Will insists, cutting Zeller off. "He induces a coma and puts them in the ground."

"How is he inducing diabetic comas?" Beverly asks, skeptical but willing to be convinced.

"Changes their medication. So he's a doctor, or a pharmacist, or he works somewhere in medical services," he says, counting off the options one by one on his fingers.

"He buries them," Beverly talks herself through it, "feeds them sugar to keep them alive long enough for the circulatory systems to soak it up."

"So he can feed the mushrooms!" Price looks far too happy at the prospect, but that, Will's learning, is just how Price is.

Zeller works his jaw, staring at the body on the table. Will almost expects him to argue for the sake of arguing, but his grim expression never tightens into hostility. "We dug up his mushroom garden."

"Yeah, he's going to want to grow a new one," Will says heavily. That's what you do when you lose a harvest, right?

You replant.

***

Things move swiftly after that. Financial records are pulled, and it's an easy scroll down the list of transactions to find the same store popping up again and again. When a recent divorcee joins the ranks of missing persons, one question to her ex-husband is all it takes to point the police's scrutiny elsewhere.

"She's the chain's tenth diabetic customer to disappear after filling a prescription for insulin," Jack fills him in as Will follows him through the loading dock of a wholesale grocer. Dark-uniformed agents stream past them as the response team gets into position, rifles at the ready, the store's employees hanging back in tight knots. "Second to disappear from this exact location."

"And the other eight?"

"All over the county. One pharmacist all over the county as well."

"Floater, huh?" Will asks, grimacing as he tries not to make eye contact with the terrified people they sweep past.

"Floater's floating right here," Jack growls. "Still logged into his work station."

As they approach the pharmacy counter, Jack pulls out his ID and holds it high in the air. "Everyone please stop what you are doing," he orders, voice pitched to carry. He's got the lungs for it, aggression bleeding into every word. "Put your hands in the air!"

Everyone freezes, raw confusion staring back. Will doesn't envy their killer's coworkers for the revelation they're about to receive.

"Special Agent Jack Crawford," Jack introduces himself, eyes hard as he scans the nervous pharmacy techs, their flustered manager. "Which one of you is Eldon Stammets?"

"Wh--" the manager starts, glancing to his right. "Eldon was just here," he says helplessly, trying to shrug with his hands still upraised. "Just now."

"Is his car still in the parking lot?" Will asks.

"His car," Jack barks as several techs half-turn to glance out the drive-through window.

"Em-employee parking is just past the loading dock," the manager stutters out. "He's got the black--"

"Blue," someone else pipes up.

Will pays just enough attention to the brief debate that follows before taking off at a jog. They'd just come through the loading dock themselves. It's doubtful Stammets could have slipped past, so they won't catch him that way, but if he hasn't found a new site yet--if he's done what Will thinks he has--then every second counts.

When he spots the vehicle they're looking for, he feels sick. They _passed_ that car on the way in. "Give me your baton," he says, holding out his hand; one of the agents who followed him hands it off without question, the others spreading out in a defensive formation as Will shatters the glass on the driver's side door. He's dimly aware they're ready to cover him if Stammets should jump out like a flushed hare, but he reaches through the shattered window to pop the trunk without even checking the seats.

As he scrambles around to the back of the car and the lifted trunk, the smell hits him like slamming face-first into a brick wall. Fresh dirt and fertilizer, too faint for them to notice while the trunk was shut tight, though he doesn't doubt that if Lecter had been with them, he'd have stopped immediately to investigate. The plastic muzzle of a breathing mask juts out of the loose soil filling the trunk, and Will doesn't have to dig very deep before his fingers find flesh--cool but not stiff, a weak pulse fluttering beneath his fingers as he presses them into the woman's neck.

"She's alive!" he yells over his shoulder as Jack comes charging up to join him.

"EMTs!" Jack bellows between choking coughs as the smell hits him too. "Now!"

As the medical crew step in and take over, Will stumbles back out of the way, clapping his hands together to brush off the dirt. He has no idea whether there's anything that can be done for Stammets' latest victim, but they can at least make sure it's his last.

"All right," Jack says between deep lungfuls of fresh air. "We know his name, we have his address, we have his car."

Will nods, already wondering how quickly they can get Stammets' face splashed across the news, when Price jogs up in a hurry.

"Jack. We just checked the browser history at Stammets' work station."

"Am I gonna wanna hear this?"

Price shakes his head. "No. And yes, but mostly no."

Beverly's on Stammets' computer when they retrace their steps, anger pouring off her in waves. Zeller watches her from the corner of his eye, turned partly away. "Freddie Lounds," he grumbles in disgust as Jack stalks up; he sounds deeply unsurprised.

"Tattlecrime.com," Jack all but snarls.

Frowning as she pulls up a page, Beverly reads aloud: "'The FBI isn't just hunting psychopaths, they're headhunting them too, offering competitive pay and benefits in the hopes of using one demented mind....'" Her voice breaks as rage and mortification collide.

"Keep going," Jack urges, though he can see the article for himself. So can Will. That's...a really very unflattering picture of him; he looks like he's about to hack his way through a bathroom door and call himself Johnny.

Beverly shakes her head, hesitating before looking his way. "It's about Will."

"Go on," Jack presses, voice hardening.

Beverly works her jaw, but Jack is Jack. Taking a deep breath, she reads: "'One demented mind to catch....' She goes into a lot of detail," Beverly cuts herself off, flicking her hand at the screen.

Jack breathes a frustrated sigh, slumping onto his elbows on the pharmacy counter. "Son of a bitch," he snaps, pounding both fists down as he straightens. "I want to know who she talked to and everything they said. If Stammets gets away...."

Will doesn't hear the rest. He's tried so hard not to attract this kind of notice--always the weird kid, always able to picture a little _too_ clearly what it would feel like to get a little of his own back, and just how to get away with it. Not that he ever has, or would, but it suddenly feels like every eye in the store is trained on his back. He doesn't know where to look, and apparently neither does anybody else, though if Zeller doesn't stop _not_-looking at him like a scolded dog--

_Fuck_.

Zeller.

At least he knows now where Freddie got some of her information.

Turning her back to Jack, Beverly mouths 'sorry' with a sympathetic grimace. Will nods jerkily. It's not her fault. He looks to the exits, wondering if Jack still needs him there, but he's not about to ask if he can go. He's not going to let Freddie fucking Lounds drive him away from the place he's made his own. He's weathered erroneous opinions before. This won't be the time that conquers him either.

***

Setting aside his pen with the vague satisfaction of a task well-completed, Hannibal closes the last book of patient notes for the day and adds it to the top of the stack. There's a certain small challenge in committing his notes to bound volumes, where pages can neither be lost nor excised without being noticed. It forces him to take the long view, to consider his words not just as he writes them but how they might be construed later--even much later--should they be requested as evidence.

Sitting back in his chair, he rolls his head until his neck pops softly. He's starting to feel stifled in the confines of his human suit; perhaps it's time to consider a proper hunt. Somewhere further afield. Baltimore is his, but he prefers to keep his true nature out of the public eye. They know what he is, of course, can imagine quite clearly what lies beneath the surface, but they've never _seen_. The unknown terror is always more effective for what the mind brings to the table.

He taps a finger on the chair arm as he considers and rejects previous haunts. Somewhere new, where he won't have the advantage of familiarity. Somewhere quiet, peaceful, without so many curious eyes. Where the only ones there are looking for a solitude of their own.

His tapping finger stills.

He's never visited Wolf Trap. He wonders if he should start.

Shelving that notion for another time, he reaches for his tablet, intending to do one last check for the night to be certain Miss Lounds has taken his warning to heart. Finding Will's face plastered across her website is an unpleasant surprise.

He skims the article quickly, but finding no mention of what she learned while listening at keyholes doesn't mollify him like it should. She's only just skirted the terms he set for her, like a child pulling a cat's tail, believing it won't be scratched. Convinced a mere scolding will deter the cat.

Flipping the cover of his tablet closed, he shakes his head slowly. "You are naughty, Miss Lounds."

That will need to be attended to. He may not have chosen Will Graham, but he can't say he's displeased with their connection. Will's mind is captivating, his ease in Hannibal's presence an unlooked-for delight. Tradition dictates he protect his mate and their witness, but he finds himself unaccountably impressed with the man who shouted and snarled his way into Hannibal's life. It's no hardship to continue this paper marriage; he looks forward to seeing the ripples that will spread from that unexpected development.

One such ripple seems eager to dash herself upon the rocks, but Hannibal sets aside that problem for now. Miss Lounds will keep.

He suspects another, more pressing issue will not.

***

This isn't the first time someone's kicked down Freddie's door, though the FBI--_that's_ a first. The other motel guests will be shooting her dirty looks tomorrow if they happen to run into each other, to say nothing of the manager. At least the maintenance guy won't be any trouble; he's been looking for reasons to come by her unit all week, though he always leaves wanting. Guys like him are easy to manage; send them off hungry, and they're always back for more.

She doesn't fight when they throw her down on the bed and zip-tie her hands behind her before hauling her upright again. If they're looking for a struggle, they won't get one. She's impressed to see Jack Crawford himself stroll in; apparently his special consultant is very special indeed. She's a little more surprised to see a familiar face: Brian Zeller, no longer the favorite and bitter about it. She wonders if he's confessed to Crawford yet, but more likely he's here to see if she will.

It's tempting: she could spill the beans right here in front of his boss and a handful of random agents who have no reason to keep their mouths shut about it. She could, but he might be more useful later, and now he _owes_ her.

"I appreciate the pageantry, Agent Crawford," she says before he can make a play for the upper hand, "but you can't arrest me for writing an article."

"You entered a federal crime scene without permission."

"Escorted by a detective," she counters, warming to the game. She knows her rights down to the letter. Does he really think he's going to beat her at this?

"Under false pretense!"

She fights not to grin. He's already raising his voice; she had no idea the head of the BAU was so easy to steer.

"It's as good as permission."

"You lied to a police officer," he tries, reining himself in when he doesn't get the response he wants.

"You can't arrest me for lying." She's starting to wonder if she'll be stuck stating the obvious in small words for the rest of the night.

He eyes her for a long moment before looking away, sucking his teeth as he considers his next phrasing. "You got all that information from a local detective?"

Prudence wins again, though it's a struggle. That doesn't mean she can't get a jab in here and there. She tosses her hair back, tipping her chin up defiantly. "Lots of talk about your man Graham. Not to mention the rivalry of who gets the collar. A local police detective looking for a pissing contest with the FBI might have some insight," she says with a careless shrug.

She glances deliberately at Zeller, but only for long enough to seem like she's reading the room for sympathy. His ears must be burning, but it doesn't show, just a slow-burning anger she wants to roll her eyes at. He'd been happy enough to trash talk Graham earlier. All she did was lend a willing ear.

"And evidently did," Crawford grumbles.

She smirks. "Sure did."

Crawford pulls a hand from his pocket, and it takes a moment to realize he's holding a pair of tweezers though he shakes them at her like an admonishing finger. "You know, the unfortunate timing of your article allowed a murderer to escape," he says, leaning in and over her as his voice drops threateningly.

She scoffs, face twisting in confusion. How is their incompetence her fault? If she'd written about the FBI arriving at a certain time at a certain place to take someone into custody, she's pretty sure she'd remember it. Maybe Graham got spotted, but if he's just going to stroll out into the open where every serial killer in Maryland can see him, what does that have to do with--

She gasps as Crawford reaches out suddenly and plucks a hair right from her scalp, irritation and outrage widening her eyes. Was that assault? _Theft_? It's physical evidence for sure, and she wants to know exactly what he means to do with it, right now, because this changes all the rules.

"You were in Minnesota," he says quietly, bending down to look her straight in the eye. _Oh_. When he said 'federal crime scene,' she'd thought-- "You were in the Shrike's nest. You know how I know? 'Cause you left one of these hairs behind," he informs her, still shaking those fucking tweezers at her to emphasize every word. "You contaminated the crime scene. Just like everywhere you go, you contaminate crime scenes. That's obstructing justice. I can indict you for obstructing justice."

Shuffling rapidly through avenues of escape, she finds herself worryingly coming up blank. She'd been so careful, damn it. How had she missed something that obvious?

It's still not as bad as it could be; he's stuck on finding proof of a previous mistake, not thinking ahead for further uses. Stalling for time, she puts on a meek, hopeful smile. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't."

"You don't write another word about Will Graham," Crawford snaps, "and I won't have to."

She stares after him in disbelief as Crawford straightens and stalks out the door. It's that easy? They're done? He didn't even ask her to sign anything. It's got to be a trick.

But the agents file out one by one without looking back until only Zeller is left. He pulls out a Swiss Army knife, but she can't even work up a flicker of worry for that, and sure enough, he cuts her free.

"You used me," he snarls under his breath, but then he leaves, tail between his legs. He doesn't shut the door behind himself.

Sitting at the edge of her bed, she rubs her wrists as a slow smile tugs at her mouth. Well, well. So Graham's important enough for Crawford to stage this little farce. That's interesting to know. More interesting still is Crawford letting her go, because now _she_ owes _him_. She's not worried about it. He's terrible at this game.

Jack thinks he has an ace in the hole, but she's got deck after deck tucked away in her pockets, and they're all stacked in her favor.

***

The couch in Abigail's hospital room is surprisingly comfortable. Comfortable enough to sleep on, as Will should know. He'll probably do the same thing again tonight, at least until visiting hours are over. It's been a long day--a really long day--and he just...sometimes he needs a reminder of why he does this to himself.

Abigail looks a lot better lately, though it's still a shock to walk in and see her hooked up to so many tubes and machines. The side of her throat is still covered by a bandage, but her color has returned, and even with the drugs keeping her under, he gets flashes now and then of a living mind when he stares at her closed lids. She looks less like she's lost in limbo, just...on pause.

He's not sure how long he's been staring meditatively at her hospital bed when a strange, hollow thumping in the hall outside catches his attention. _Ba-bump, ba-bump_, steady as a heartbeat, but the sound has weight and force. It draws closer, gaining volume, and he turns his head to peer out the open door just as a massive beast paces by without stopping.

A velvety black muzzle. Back-swept branches of spreading antlers. A shaggy, muscular neck with feathers threaded through the dark fur. Cloven hooves that strike the tile in that distinctive beat, fore and opposite hind moving nearly in tandem. He's never seen the ravenstag of his dreams from so short a distance, but...why is it here?

***

"Oh!" Alana says quietly, pulling up short in the doorway of Abigail Hobbs' hospital room. She'd been certain she'd find Will here after hearing about that vicious article published about him, but she hadn't expected him to have company. "Hannibal," she says with a smile, checking again to make sure she hasn't awakened the tired man slumped over on the couch.

She doubts very much that she's surprised him, but Hannibal pauses regardless, the edges of a hospital blanket he'd been about to spread over Will still stretched between his hands. "Alana," he greets her with a voice equally soft. It's strange; she's had ample proof that Hannibal can be careful with humans, but watching him tuck Will in is the first time she's realized he can also be gentle. She feels almost ashamed of herself that she didn't know that before. "Have you and I come for the same reason?"

"The Tattlecrime article?" It's a struggle to keep her voice pleasant enough not to pull Will back to consciousness; he looks like he's getting the first decent sleep he's had in days.

***

Rising from the couch, Will crosses the room and steps out into the hallway. He's curious, but he feels no particular urgency. The ravenstag's presence doesn't feel like a threat, or even an omen. He's here, so it's here. Maybe they're even here for the same reason.

***

Hannibal's eyes turn hard, but paradoxically she finds that comforting. Hannibal has an intellectual appreciation for interesting people, but he rarely allows himself to connect deeply with anyone. If he's incensed on Will's behalf, then they must have hit it off far better than she'd hoped.

Nodding tightly, Hannibal steps back from the couch and turns to face her fully. "Then it seems we're both here as his friends."

Alana smiles back in response but inwardly feels like she's been dashed with cold water. She'd come to see if Will needed to talk, to offer herself up as a friendly shoulder or a willing ear, but now she wonders if her motives are entirely altruistic. How had she envisioned their conversation, really? Just two friends railing about a common enemy? Or had she planned to put her calmest face on, let Will work through his problems with a few helpful nudges to keep him on track?

She knows Hannibal shut Jack down on the subject of seeing Will unofficially. He hadn't even sounded disappointed over the missed opportunity, though his eyes had lit up every time he mentioned something Will had done or said during their time in Minnesota. That intrigued look probably had nothing to do with any of the reasons that might have been true if Hannibal were human, but she's completely certain that Hannibal isn't here tonight in any capacity as a psychiatrist.

"Ah. Dibs?" she asks lightly, intending to bow out gracefully, only to watch some guarded contentment fade from Hannibal's face.

"Of course," he says politely, taking a step back--away from her and the couch--inclining his head. "You've known him longer; I'm sure he'd find your presence much more comfortable."

"I meant you," she stops him before he can make his excuses and run. "Since you were here first," she elaborates at his uncertain look. Gods, she really would think him smitten if that weren't so unlikely. She's nearly as amused that Hannibal Lecter is the only grown man to whom she can apply the word 'smitten' with a straight face. "I just wanted to make sure he was okay, but clearly he's in good hands."

Watching Hannibal's eyes warm always feels a little like a gift, like coaxing a wild animal close. It's not something seen by many. "You're a good friend, Alana," he says, smiling as she glances away, embarrassed. "I'll do my best not to disappoint."

***

Will stares after the ravenstag even after it turns the corner, as the sounds of its hooves fade to silence. He stares even as the empty corridors start to go dark. Night is falling; he should probably get to shelter.

Two large hands settle on his shoulders from behind. When he glances down, he sees black skin, wicked talons, but he feels no fear at all.

***

"'In the tunnels of that twisted wood, whose low prodigious oaks twine groping boughs and shine dim with the phosphorescence of strange fungi, dwell the furtive and secretive zoogs; who know many obscure secrets of the dream-world and a few of the waking world, since--'"

"What are you reading?" Will asks as he opens his eyes.

Lecter pauses, looking up from the book held cupped in both hands. Will doesn't realize how comforting Lecter's low, rumbling voice had been until it falls silent. "A travelogue," Lecter says with a faint smile. "I've always been curious to visit the dream realm, but I'm afraid my spirit is too mired in the flesh for such travels."

Blinking sleep out of his eyes, Will tries to gather his thoughts, but he's still more asleep than awake. Politeness suggests he should sit up, shake the blanket that someone gave him from his shoulders, but Lecter doesn't seem offended by his informality. Looking past the man, his eyes settle on Abigail's sleeping face, and all at once it all comes crashing down.

"You could be reading to a killer," he mumbles, pangs of loss already plucking at his heart. He doesn't believe it, but he's not naïve enough to think it matters. The mob clamoring for answers won't care where they get them; they'll tear Abigail apart if he can't keep her safe.

"She has a killer reading to her," Lecter replies, brows arching. "I fail to see the problem."

Will frowns. "Are you saying you _know_\--"

"She's a hunter like her father," Lecter points out calmly. "Has she killed? Of course. Has she killed a human? Very unlikely. But you can't think I'd abandon her either way."

Pushing himself upright, Will plants his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, scrubbing at his cheeks until he feels marginally more awake. "Jack still thinks she lured those girls."

"A vulgar accusation," Lecter says, "but...entirely possible."

"That's not what happened," Will insists. He knows his defensiveness is useless here; Abigail could have been dancing widdershins around a pile of antlers in the moonlight while bathing in those girls' blood for all it would matter to Lecter. But he's just had a very sharp lesson in how damaging loose talk can be, and he needs them to stand united on this, for Abigail's sake.

Lecter nods once, accepting his certainty, but Will can tell he's not done. "Jack will ask her when she wakes up. He might even ask one of us to do it if he remains in the dark regarding our relationship."

"Do we want that?" Will asks, wondering at Lecter's hesitation.

Lecter shifts to glance back at Abigail, eyes troubled. "Our introduction to her life was unfortunately traumatic. I know Alana would prefer neither of us be immediately present when she wakes, but I find myself unable to take a neutral view."

"You think she'll be scared of us?" Will asks, stomach turning.

"I think it's likely she knows as little of Other marriages as you did, and that someone will have to explain. If it's left to an outsider...."

Will sits up and flops back, both hands bracketing the bridge of his nose and sliding down to press palm-to-palm before his mouth, thumbs hooking under his chin. He's seen how the staff looks at them. If that's Abigail's first impression of her situation now...gods.

Dropping his hands to his thighs, Will shakes his head. "Do you think...I know she gave her consent at the time, but is she even going to remember?"

"I have every hope that she will, but if not, I would rather it be one of us who reminds her. _Not_ Jack Crawford."

"Or Freddie Lounds," Will agrees humorlessly, casting a nervous glance at the room's open door.

Lecter stills, eyes narrowing like an angry cat. "I saw the article. Miss Lounds has greatly overstepped herself with her accusations."

Will huffs a laugh, mostly breath. "I mean, I'd have to read up on the libel laws, but I'm willing to bet she stopped just short of anything actionable. And people who can 'do things' make good copy; you know that," he says tiredly, dropping the air quotes he makes with his fingers, hands falling limply to his sides. "It's too bad I can't ask for a cut. 'Jack Crawford's Crime Gimp' probably pulled in a nice chunk of ad revenue."

"Will," Lecter says, in that patient, gentle tone people use when they're about to say nice things he's not allowed to run away from. "Your talent is a part of you, but you are not your talent. You could have used it in a hundred different ways, or chosen never to use it at all. Instead you've chosen to give others a boon that will never be repaid, rarely even thanked. Don't let the Freddie Lounds of the world persuade you otherwise."

Will ducks his head, picking at the hem of the white blanket still draped over his legs, embarrassed yet warmed through by Lecter's assurance. He's heard it all before, but it's different coming from someone who can _see_ him, maybe even the parts Will would rather he didn't.

Lecter doesn't tell him he's a good man. He's praising him for being a man who's chosen to do good.

"And Will," Lecter adds, hushed voice brimming with...something friendly. Something fond. "The mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself, not the worst of someone else."

That's a hard one to believe sometimes when the mirror goes cracked or dark, but he vows to hold on to the reminder for as long as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit Hannibal was reading to Abigail comes from [Lovecraft's "The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath."](http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/dq.aspx)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't paying close enough attention and realized belatedly that Freddie's staying in a motel, not an apartment, so minor changes to previous chapter. Took a break yesterday too, just needed a day to vegetate. :3

Shutting her newly-repaired door behind her, coffee in hand, Freddie glances down at the parking lot from the second-floor landing and stares, her stride hitching in surprise. Detective Pascal, her talkative friend from the mushroom site, leans against a car at the foot of the stairs, looking like he's been waiting for hours for her to come down, prepared to wait for hours more. It's very interesting that he found her--they're hours from Elk Neck, and it's not like this motel would show up on any search as her place of residence--which suggests he still has friends on the force.

She's cautious as she makes her way down to the asphalt, but mostly she's curious. He's come a long way for...what? Revenge? Doesn't look the type. To deliver a threat, maybe, or maybe to bargain. Maybe just to vent. With any luck he'll have something useful to add to what he's already told her.

"Don't know where you got half that information," Pascal accuses, expression as stony as his eyes are fierce. "It wasn't from me."

"I may have made some inferences," she admits, shrugging lightly.

"They think I told you all of it."

"They saw you talking to me." Zeller had been a lot smarter on that front, but come _on_. There's no crime in _asking_, but there are disclosure protocols for a reason.

"They also think it's my fault Stammets escaped."

Actually they think it's her fault, but she's not interested in hosting a pity party. Might as well cut to the chase. "I'm sorry I got you fired."

"I wasn't fired," he corrects her with a frown, pulling his hands out of his pockets as she stops just within arm's reach. "I was suspended."

"Well, they're gonna fire you," she informs him with the voice of experience. "Jack Crawford will make sure of that."

"You...." His words dry up as he looks away, shaking his head until he breaks into a humorless laugh. "You stir the hornet's nest, and I'm the one who gets stung?"

"I can help you get work outside the force, if you want me to," she offers, tipping her head to the side as she watches realization dawn. "I know people in private security."

"Not the first cop you got fired," he mutters, numb.

"Guarantee you it pays better," she coaxes. He's going to need that favor, whether he knows it yet or not; he'll never work in law enforcement again. "Right now, future you is thanking me."

There's a man coming up on her right, someone who looks like he's got someplace to be and won't mind walking right through them to get there. Rude, but that's to be expected, doing business in the parking lot of a--

It's not the crack of the gunshot that startles her; it's the sudden splash of warm wetness across her face, shocking as a slap. Pascal reels backward and drops to the asphalt, a pool of blood spreading rapidly from his right temple. When she drags her eyes up again, the gunman is right there: an older man with thinning hair, black-framed glasses, clothes only a grandfather could carry off. He still has a gun in his hand, but it's pointed only vaguely at her, the muzzle tipped down.

"I read your article," he says, and oh gods, he talks with his hands. _Now_ the gun's pointed at her, if only briefly. She needs to find a way to shut him up before his bad habit gets her killed. "Tell me about Will Graham."

If it keeps his mouth shut and his hands still? Gladly.

***

This isn't really how Jack wanted to spend a blustery Saturday morning. He's not great at sleeping in--neither is Bella--but grey skies make lingering over coffee in bed seem damn appealing. Now he's got a positive sighting on Stammets, which is good, and a dead cop, which is very, very bad. Freddie Lounds is just the icing on the cake.

"Jack?"

He's a little surprised to hear her calling him over, but...not that surprised, not really. The woman doesn't have an ounce of shame in her, isn't worried about keeping her head down, even now.

"Miss Lounds?" he asks as he approaches. She's sitting on the back bumper of an ambulance, a blue blanket wrapped around her shoulders, with a guard on her in case Stammets--or anyone else--comes back to finish the job. The EMTs have gotten her mostly cleaned up, except for two spots of red on her right cheek. He hates that he wonders if they've been left there just for show, but with Freddie it's always best to wonder.

"Go ahead and stand down, officer," he tells Freddie's guard, who nods once and turns immediately to go. He makes a note to himself to be very careful if he ever needs to assign real protection. Freddie hadn't been popular before, and that was before she got one of their own killed.

"Miss Lounds, are you all right?"

She looks belatedly horrified, like she's just remembered something important, and Jack braces himself, wondering what in the hell she's been stalling on this time.

"Where's Will Graham?" she asks, her face the mirror of concern.

Jack clenches his jaw. If she thinks she can use this to snag another shot at interviewing Will--

"We have an eyewitness to the murder. We don't need Will Graham."

"No, that's not why I'm asking."

He narrows his eyes. If she doesn't expect to run into him here, then....

Son of a _bitch_.

"Someone find me Will Graham!" he barks over his shoulder before turning back. "This is about Will?"

"He was talking about people having the same properties of a fungus."

"Stammets?"

"Thoughts leaping from brain to brain. They mutate, they evolve."

At least they know their guy is crazy. They may give him more nightmares with the weird shit they get up to, but he'd rather deal with the crazies than the ones who just think they're clever. "Well, what does he want with Will Graham?"

"Someone who understands him. Graham was right," she insists at Jack's puzzled look. "Stammets is looking for connections."

Maybe so, but there's no way she could know that. That's information that hasn't come close to being released, so either she has an informant within his own team, or she's been listening at doors she has no business being near. "What did you tell him?" he snaps, staring her dead in the eye. It's the only reason he sees the shadow of a smile shift the tension of her mouth, brightening her eyes, there and gone. "I need to know," he says slowly and deliberately as she looks away, "what you told Eldon Stammets about Will Graham."

She nods faintly, almost to herself, as she comes to a decision. He hopes she's gotten her kicks just then from withholding information, because he's not going to stand for her bullshit today.

"I told him about the Hobbs girl."

"What did you tell him?"

"Everything," she says, self-righteous, as if to ask what else she could have done. "He wants to help Will Graham connect with Abigail Hobbs. He's gonna bury her."

Great. Just fucking great. Like Will needs another reason to see the Hobbs girl as a victim in need of a protector. She's not even awake, and she's got him wrapped around her goddamn finger. There's one benefit to Will's obsession, at least.

When Jack pulls out his phone, he's pretty sure he knows exactly where Will will be.

***

The thing about having dogs is that while he can shuffle right back to bed after feeding them, there's no possible way he can sleep in. They're good dogs, don't generally cause a lot of fuss, but if he lies in bed too long, he'll have a constant parade of wet noses nudging into his hand, just a gentle reminder that there are loyal companions patiently starving to death, if that's something Will cares about. No pressure.

Most days it's easier to just stay up, but today in particular he makes an effort, feeding himself as well as the dogs after letting them out to piss on trees and investigate what might have scurried by in the night. He's got a date with Lecter at the hospital to discuss Abigail's options for after she wakes up, and he doesn't want to be late.

It's an hour's drive from Wolf Trap to Baltimore, and he gives himself a little extra time, just in case traffic's bad. Weekends usually see a flip--people driving out of the city for a day in the country instead of heading in to work--but the traffic gods are fickle. He does pass one accident, but it's minor, so even though he lives much further away, he's pretty sure he's beaten Lecter to the hospital. It's still a few minutes to nine when he strolls through the doors.

He's got the check-in procedure down to a science, and he takes the elevator to Abigail's floor on autopilot. Mostly he's thinking of Jack, the hoops the FBI are going to make Abigail jump through. There'll be questions, and evaluations, and court-ordered therapy--that last had been one of the conditions of allowing them to take over as Abigail's guardians, witness or not. Usually Will has no use for therapy, but in this case? He's willing to be convinced.

Stepping out of the elevator, he pulls out his cell phone on the first ring, pausing just a few feet away when he checks the display and sees it's from Jack. Maybe there's been a break in the case? If he needs to turn around and head back out again--

"Hello?"

"_Will, it's Jack. Are you at the hospital_?"

"Yes, I am." Shit. Stammets isn't _actively looking_ for diabetics now, is he?

"_Stammets knows about Abigail_."

His pulse kicks into high gear before his brain can even process that, right hand scrabbling for his gun even as he hangs up on Jack and scrolls through his contacts to Lecter's number.

"_Will_?"

"Are you here?" Will demands as he jogs down the corridor, looking up and down the hall for even a glimpse of anything suspicious.

"_Yes_."

"So is Stammets. He's after Abigail."

He's not sure which of them hangs up first as he stuffs his phone back into his pocket. Taking a two-handed grip on his gun just outside Abigail's room, he pivots through the doorway and brings his weapon up...on nothing. The room and the bed are both empty.

Panic sings through him. What is Stammets even thinking? She doesn't fit the profile for any of his other victims...what the fuck is he planning to do?

Tearing back out of the room, he jogs a few more feet down the hall and all but lunges for the nurses' station. "Where is she?" he barks at the nurse on duty. "Abigail Hobbs, the girl in 408. Where is she?"

The nurse shakes her head, confused by his urgency. "They took her for tests."

"Who took her?" His words emerge breathless, terror sealing his throat. "Who took her?" he repeats, sharp and authoritative.

"I...I don't know."

Damn it. _Think_. Whatever Stammets has planned, he can't do it here. He needs a place to plant his idea, time to watch it grow. He'll be taking her out of the hospital, but he can't just wheel her through the front doors. The entrance the ambulance crews use to transfer patients? Too visible. But there'll be a dock the hospital's vendors use to pick up records and deliver supplies, and he'd bet it's manned a lot more sporadically than anywhere that might involve patients.

He snags a door badge from an outraged RN and takes the stairs, knowing the elevator is only going to spit him out in public areas and trusting his feet to get him there a little faster than whatever lift system the hospital uses to transport gurneys from level to level. Ground floor? Basement floor? He stops at the first, knowing it's going to cost him less time and effort to go down another flight than climb back up if he's wrong, and gets lucky. When he throws the door open and charges out into the main corridor, he finds Stammets trying to maneuver an uncooperative stretcher around a corner up ahead, camouflaged in stolen scrubs.

"Hey!" he shouts, taking a shooter's stance. Stammets casts a look over his shoulder, and when he sees Will, he hesitates. No. He _reacts_.

Stammets yelps as the bullet tears through his right shoulder, dropping his own gun as he staggers back from the gurney. Fetching up against the wall, he slides down it, curling in on himself like a child, clutching his wound. Making his way over cautiously, Will kicks Stammets' gun away, putting himself between Stammets and Abigail. Keeping his own gun trained on Stammets, he reaches back and presses his fingers to the unbandaged side of Abigail's throat, searching for a pulse. By the Black Mother Herself, if he doesn't find one--

But it's there: slow but strong. Thank the fucking gods.

"What were you going to do to her?" he asks as he lets Abigail go, taking a menacing step closer to the panting, bleeding man huddled on the floor.

"We all evolved from mycelium," Stammets explains haltingly. "I'm simply reintroducing her to the concept."

"By burying her alive?"

Stammets looks puzzled. Disappointed. "The journalist said you understood me."

Journalist? Freddie _fucking_ Lounds?

"I don't," Will snarls through clenched teeth.

Back the way he came, the heavy door to the stairwell thumps closed a second time, echoing in the deserted corridor. He really hopes that's Jack and not security, considering he currently looks like a madman about to execute a staff member, but he doesn't hear a single footstep after. Good.

Stammets looks like he might burst into tears, and not from the pain. "Well you would have. You would have. If you walk through a field of mycelium, they know you are there; they know you are _there_. The spores..._reach_ for you as you walk by. I know who you're reaching for," Stammets insists, eyes cutting past Will to the pale girl on the stretcher. "I _know_. Abigail Hobbs. And you should have let me plant her. You would have found her i--"

Movement. On his right. Now slow, not fast: purposeful, and coming closer. Stammets looks first, face blanking with such pure bafflement, Will risks a glance himself.

That's Lecter coming down the hall towards them, head tipped down, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Stammets. He's lost his shoes and suit jacket somewhere, and that's probably his waistcoat lying crumpled on the floor behind him, and...why is he working at the cuffs of his--wait, why is his shirt unbuttoned in the first--

"Oh, shit," Will breathes as the shirt hits the floor, and between one stride and the next, Lecter _changes_.

_Big_ is his first thought, and it's a highly relevant one, because the Thousand are like snakes: the better they eat, the bigger and faster they grow. Before his eyes, Lecter gains a foot, almost two, skin washing carbon-black like a glass poured full of ink. Antlers slide through his bare scalp like knives, trailing glistening, dark ichor along the twisting snarl of tines that stretch tall enough to nearly scrape the high ceilings. As the color bleeds from his eyes, his already-sharp teeth lengthen and turn vicious, nails thickening and lengthening to talons. Those hands look strangely familiar; they're almost enough to distract him from the way Lecter's tailored slacks strain to contain the muscles of his thighs, only saved from shredding off him at the seams by the greyhound leanness of his hips and waist.

Drawn out of his shocked staring by Stammets' high, thin screech, Will blinks and shakes his head, feeling oddly like he's been mesmerized by a cobra. _Some fucking mongoose_, he thinks, and that--that reminds him suddenly of exactly who he's dealing with.

"Dr. Lecter," he calls, moving to intercept the man, who doesn't look like he's heard him at all. "Wait. Doc--_Hannibal_," he says more insistently, stretching his arms out to either side. Fuck, Lecter is enormous--impressive even as a human, but like this he's nothing but muscle and sinew stretched over heavy, staring bone. Will's sure he could count every one of Lecter's ribs, but it'd be the work of seconds for those corded arms and spearpoint talons to rip him in half.

Vaguely Will registers the way Hannibal differs from his expectations: he's completely hairless, without even a trace of fur, and his dead-white eyes don't resemble the rest of his kin's at all. He sets all that aside to puzzle over later. He has much more immediate concerns.

He half expects Lecter to push right past him, but instead he stops, so close Will can feel the heat radiating off him. The wild, woodsy scent Will had thought was Lecter's cologne is stronger now, but not unpleasant--_much_ nicer than the acrid stench of urine as Stammets' bladder legs go in sheer terror. Though Lecter's eggshell eyes never shift from Stammets, Will's pretty sure he's listening. It's maybe not much, but he'll take it.

"Hannibal," he says again: calmly, not a command. "Let him go."

"Protecting our witness is my right." Hannibal's voice is deeper than before, rumbly with a hint of a growl. Could be anger. Could just be the way he sounds with that broader chest. It's still the same voice he knows, just...different.

"Then that makes it mine too, right?" he asks bluntly, tipping his head far back to meet Hannibal's eyes if they can be pulled away from their prey. "And I have."

Hannibal's upper lip peels back from sharp fangs as his eyes narrow, but he doesn't sweep Will aside. Will doesn't back down.

"Hannibal. I've got it," he says firmly. When Hannibal huffs a sharp sigh, Will offers a faint smile. He knows. _Fuck_, he knows. When he saw Abigail's empty bed-- "Let me do this."

He's asking, not demanding, and it works. Hannibal's jaw clenches, but he backs off, looking at last where Abigail lies, sleeping all this time. He circles around Will, and Will lets him. It's not like he has any hope of restraining Hannibal physically if he decides to go for Stammets after all, but all he does is loom at Abigail's bedside, leaning down a little for an assessing sniff. One big hand reaches for her, claws curled mindfully in as he brushes the backs of his fingers down her cheek above the bandage. She must be okay, because when he turns, he shifts again, shrinking down to a more manageable size as his skin blushes with color.

"My apologies," Hannibal says, sounding far more composed than Will would have been at finding himself half-naked in a deserted hospital corridor, though he still looks vaguely troubled. "I was led to believe the protection of a witness was a matter of tradition, but it seems there may be an element of instinct to it as well."

Will looks him over curiously, and he can see it plain as day. Hannibal's reaction had surprised him too.

"Yeah, well...guess the cat had to come out of the bag sometime," Will says with a shrug, holstering his gun. Stammets won't be going anywhere with Lecter standing guard, but the only way he won't spill the beans during questioning is if he's already begged for protection the minute Jack arrives.

Hannibal frowns, looking Stammets over with open dislike. "It's not too late for me to remove the problem."

Will snorts. He has the weirdest certainty that he's going to be talking Hannibal out of eating Will's collars for the rest of his career. Not because Hannibal is hungry; because he's trying to be _nice_. "Hey, you saved her last time." Shooting Hobbs doesn't count; she would have died anyway if Hannibal weren't there. "It's my turn."

He doesn't even think about how that might sound until Stammets' eyes get wider and more horrified, like he thinks Will is going to eat him if Hannibal doesn't.

Gods, he hopes they can keep the press away from this guy for a good long while. Freddie Lounds is going to have a field day.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah--tumblr is [here](https://ciceqi.tumblr.com/) if you want notifications and dumb chapter summaries that way. XD


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